


Worth the Risk

by Sarolonde



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst, Badass Lance, Love, M/M, Memory Loss, Mentor/Protégé, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14253576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarolonde/pseuds/Sarolonde
Summary: Lance lost Shiro four years ago but now he’s reappeared in the crosshairs of Lance’s sniper rifle. Lance is being ordered to take the shot but, despite the life-threatening consequences, he’s never been very good at following orders.





	1. Kill For You

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in the works for a while, sitting there doing nothing, which was just making me sad because I have this whole wonderful story planned out that I love and want to share, and now, FINALLY, I am ^_^ let me know what you think!
> 
>  **Warning:** Violence, sexually explicit content, sexual tension, an avalanche of angst and badass Lance.
> 
> beta'd by the wonderful [Bec](http://midnightmooncatcher.tumblr.com/)

_If I'm gon' die for you_  
 _If I'm gon' kill for you_  
 _Then I'll spill this blood for you_  
~ Pray For Me - The Weeknd

**12:40 – September 27 th 2017**

The heavy van door rolls closed and Lance grimaces, the metal-grinding sound never failing to rankle, setting his teeth on edge. Squinting against the bright sunshine, he glances up at the skyscraper before him and adjusts the strap of his navy overalls absentmindedly. It’s a warm fall day and the disguise uniform has been absolutely suffocating, so he’s stripped down to only a white tank underneath the overalls that are hanging on by a single strap.

It’s not a very professional look, but since when has Lance ever been known as such?

Shouldering his heavy equipment bag, Lance makes his way into the relatively quiet residential building. The lobby has four security cameras, Lance’s eyes flicker to them discreetly before he approaches the concierge desk behind which a man and a woman stand, idle and bored. The woman – she has a shiny name tag he can’t be fucked reading – gives Lance a once over before smiling enthusiastically and falling over herself to help him.

“Hello sir, can I help you?” she asks quickly to beat her male colleague. The man rolls his eyes from behind her.

Lance smiles convincingly. “Yeah, hi. I’m here for AC maintenance in apartment 411.”

“Of course, I just need some ID, sir.”

“Oh, sure!” Lance says, rummaging through his overall pockets. “It’s here somewhere. God, I’m hopeless with this kind of thing. I lose _everything_. I swear I’d lose my head if it wasn’t—Oh, no, wait, here it is!”

She inspects Lance’s false identity for far too long, not because she’s suspicious but because she’s _interested_. It takes all of Lance’s effort to maintain his pleasant smile instead of rolling his eyes every time she glances up at him through her lashes in a way she clearly thinks is appealing. Poor girl. He’s never found trying too hard an attractive quality.

“That’s fine, sir. You can go on up,” she permits, smiling so hard it must hurt. “We’re here if you need anything else. Anything at all.”

“Thanks, dude,” Lance says, tapping the desk coolly and winking flirtatiously at the male concierge before making his way over to the elevator. Waiting for the elevator, Lance can hear the man chuckling with amusement and the woman scoff, “That explains a lot.” With his back to them, Lance finally allows himself a much-needed eye-roll.

Inside the empty elevator, Lance presses the buttons for level 4 and level 6 – the decoy level and the level he’s actually assigned to, respectively – humming Shoot To Thrill and banging his head along to the imagined beat. Reaching into his equipment bag, he pulls on his black gloves and flexes his fingers in the skin-tight material. He sets his earbuds in, ACDC screaming in his ears as his follows along with the guitar riffs, fingers curling and strumming in the air.

Strolling out on level 6, Lance confidently makes his way to apartment 602 and uses his Agency master decryption key to bypass the electronic lock. The apartment is unsurprisingly lavish for this building, but he pays little attention as he assesses the windows and finds the correct one, a long pane in the middle of the glassed wall facing south-southwest.

Setting his bag down by the window, Lance sets to work cutting a hole in the glass and assembling his rifle. He does so intuitively, more than accustomed to the routine by now; he knows his sniper rifle inside out and it’s become another part of him, an extension of his body.

He watches the distant gardens below, teeming with office workers out for lunch break in the surrounding cafes or sitting at park benches with hot dogs and kebabs from the food trucks. It must be horrible, to be so oblivious to the greater, secretive world around you. Lance never understood the phrase ‘ignorance is bliss,’ far too inquisitive to allow ‘curiosity killed the cat’ even slow him down.

Lance pauses his music and presses the agency connect button on his phone, speaking into the microphone in his headphones. “Lynx, zero-one-five-zero, signing in. Requesting target confirmation.”

Waiting for the agency’s response, Lance gets in position. He settles comfortably on his stomach, sitting up on his elbows with his sniper rifle resting against his shoulder and on its bipod. It doesn’t take long before his phone pings as an information packet is received and he taps through the meticulous security screens. The profile of his target opens on his screen and Lance freezes, eyes widening as he’s met with familiar grey eyes.

“This is—There has to be some kind of mistake…” Lance mutters under his breath, glancing out the window vaguely and then back to the kind eyes and stern expression on his screen. Disbelief and tension stretching uncomfortably through his muscles and nerves.

“No mistake, Lynx,” comes the electronically modified voice in his ear. Lance’s stomach drops, twisting and tightening painfully. “Shirogane, Takashi, code name Panther. Confirmed target.”

 _Fuck, this can’t be happening,_ Lance thinks, swallowing back his rising anxiety.

Taking a silent, controlled breath, Lance glances at his watch, 12:52, go time. Setting down his phone, Lance follows procedure mechanically and aims his rifle through the hole he cut into the window. With his finger resting against the trigger gently, Lance tucks the butt firmly against his shoulder and presses his cheek against the stock to peer through the scope. He breathes calmly, deeply, and closes his left eye to aim.

Lance moves the sight over the crowds, searching from person to person for that impossibly solid chest and plume of white hair. He identifies Shiro quickly, ever and inescapably drawn to him like the positively charged magnet to Lance’s negative. His heart jolts and tumbles at the sight of him. Characteristically attired in an immaculate and form-fitting smoky grey suit, Shiro has barely changed from when Lance last saw him four years ago.

 _Hey sharpshooter,_ he hears Shiro’s smooth, warm voice in his mind. _Nice work today._

“Why?” Lance hears himself ask, voice wavering involuntarily. He swallows and, more firmly, questions, “Why him?”

“It is not your place to question orders, Agent. You are merely a weapon of the Altea Agency and you eliminate the targets we aim you at. You _follow_ orders, you do _not_ question them,” the voice in his ear speaks, annoyance evident even through the software distorting the person’s voice. “Is the target in sight?”

 _It’s not a burden you have to carry alone, Lance. I’m here for you._ He can feel Shiro’s hand on his face, thumb drawing a gentle, soothing, breathtaking line across his cheekbone.

Lance swallows hard. “Affirmative, but—”

“Agent!” the voice snaps.

 _A simple 835-yard target,_ his professional mind affirms. _Wind speed 13 mph, southwest. Multiple civilians surrounding target, clear line of sight on target imperative._

Stretching his trembling fingers, Lance steadies and grips the trigger firmly. With Shiro in his crosshairs Lance follows him through the crowd to a food truck where he’s placing an order. Lance frowns when Shiro tenses and angles his head almost imperceptibly to glimpse at a nearby table. Following his line of sight, Lance spots the man at the table, hand tucked suspiciously but casually into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Is the shot clear, Agent?” the voice questions and Lance draws his crosshairs back over to Shiro.

“Affirmative.”

 _Lance._ He hears Shiro whisper in his ear, breath hot against his skin.

His heart is pounding achingly against his ribcage, breath growing shorter by the second and mind racing, stumbling, whirling in a maelstrom of questions. Why do they want him dead? Was deactivating him not enough? Was sending him away not enough? How could Shiro possibly be a threat? _Why_ is this happening?

“Take the shot, Agent!”

_Lance, please…_

Lance snarls.

Lance squeezes the trigger.

 

* * *

 

**12:45 – 27 th September 2017**

Groaning internally, Shiro slumps forward against his desk and checks his watch. He sighs heavily. If he doesn’t go for lunch in this minor lull he never will, he’ll forget, again. Cracking his neck from side to side and stretching out his back, Shiro rises from his malicious office chair and makes his way through the practically empty office to the elevators.

 _The gruelling day is halfway over_ , Shiro thinks as he rides the elevator and then scowls. _The gruelling day is_ only _halfway over…_

Shiro walks out into the warmth of the midday sun and practically melts with relief, grateful despite how oppressive his suit feels. He tilts his head back and just breathes. Spending another minute in that musty office looking over the same damn spreadsheets over and over was about to send him diving out the window from the twelfth floor.

In the heart of the Central Business District, the streets are teeming with businessmen like himself on their breaks and going for lunch. His office building is opposite a small park surrounded by cafes and restaurants and food trucks. The cacophony is a jarring change from the quiet hum of his office, but Shiro tunes it out as he makes his way to his favourite food truck that makes delicious turkey focaccia sandwiches.

“What can I get for you, sir?” the girl in the truck drones monotonously.

Shiro’s placing his order when something in his periphery catches his attention and he pauses mid-sentence. He tilts his head and glimpses a man sitting at a table a few yards away who quickly glances away from him. The movement of the man’s eyes is barely discernible but there’s something unsettling in the casual was his hand’s resting awkwardly in his pocket despite the rigidity of his posture. The man looks like he’s waiting for something or someone, a completely normal thing for a person to be doing, and yet for some reason, it makes Shiro feel tense.

Turning back to the girl at the counter, who is now frowning at him like he’s crazy – and maybe he is – Shiro completes his order. Waiting for his sandwich, Shiro keeps himself relaxed but cautiously keeps the strange man in his field of vision, watching every twitch of movement. But the man does nothing suspicious, simply sitting there, barely moving as he stares at his phone.

He’s never felt this paranoid before. His heart beating that extra pump faster with adrenaline, muscles tensing as if ready for fight or flight, and hyper aware, noticing things he wouldn’t ordinarily notice. Yet, he feels oddly at ease, alert and prepared for anything.

_For what? Why?_

“Here you are, sir,” the server girls says, holding out his sandwich.

Shiro’s eyes roam over her, examining her promptly. He feels the slight tremor in her hand, notices her bloodshot eyes and unusually dilated pupils in the bright sun. There’s a bandage on her wrist at the edge of her sleeve, her hair is oily and thin. Under the surface she’s younger than she appears, possibly nineteen or twenty, and yet there is so much weariness in her demeanour.

 _Drugs_ , his mind offers by way of explanation. An explanation he hadn’t been seeking. _Likely methamphetamine considering the rates of local distribution._

“Sir?” the girl questions, self-consciousness filling her voice with disdain. “There are other customers waiting. If you don’t want—”

“Ah, yes, sorry,” Shiro mumbles, accepting his food and smiling warmly. “Thank you very much.”

The girl merely rolls her eyes at him and goes to serve the next customer.

_What the hell was that…?_

Disoriented, Shiro shakes his head and walks away from the food truck.

A warning prickle creeps up the back of his neck and Shiro immediately remembers the shady man watching him. He glances up and in the reflection of a nearby truck’s shiny coffee machine he sees the exact same man following him with determination. Closing in quickly, a syringe in his hand. Shiro’s pulse leaps and when he instinctively turns to face him—

A sickening crack rings out and the man’s head instantly explodes, disintegrating into blood and bone and flesh right before Shiro’s eyes. He watches as the headless body collapses, limbs twitching and blood gushing.

The world around him plunges into panicked mayhem as hundreds of people scream and run and hide. It all feels so distant, he feels so far removed. Shiro gapes, feeling the warmth of blood splattered on his face and soaking heavily into his clothes. He can’t move, he feels paralysed, utterly unable to process what’s happening. There is a hollow thudding in his ears, hearing his own heartbeat as if underwater, and nonsensically regular.

Blinking slowly, he turns his head in the direction of the bullet – somehow calculating the angle based on the splatter – to a nearby skyscraper. He observes a glint of light from one of the windows roughly six floors up, but it disappears instantly.

Dazed, Shiro looks down at himself, at the bright scarlet staining his clothes and the chunks clinging to jacket. His stomach clenches and he falls to his knees, retching on the ground.

 

* * *

 

**22:34 – 27 th September 2017**

The cool night air, a stark contrast to the day’s warmth, sends a chill through Shiro as he trudges to his front door. But he can’t bring himself to care. He’s too tired, mind too overwhelmed. Nine hours later and he’s finally home after spending all that time in a police station answering questions he doesn’t have answers to.

His keys rattle in his trembling fingers as he unlocks the door, he goes to drop them in the bowl on the nearby table but misses and just stares down at them as the clatter to the floor. Closing the door behind him, Shiro leans back against it and heaves a sigh, staring into the dark emptiness of his house. Everything looks different, feels different. His skin itches and mind blurs. Shiro feels wrong, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. Like he doesn’t know himself anymore.

_Takashi…_

Shiro feels the voice like a caress, tendrils of aching emotion weaving through his mind. All day he’s heard a man’s tender voice but doesn’t recognise it, doesn’t remember it.

 _It’s not real. It’s just shock,_ Shiro assures himself.

Dropping his head into his hands, Shiro rakes his fingers through his hair and straightens. He glances down at the too small black sweatsuit the police had given him and grimaces. Though most of the blood on his skin and chunks in his hair were cleaned off him in the shower he’d taken at the station, Shiro can still feel it, clinging to his skin.

Shiro makes his way to his bedroom wearily, stripping out of the tight clothing and carefully removing his prosthetic arm, limb aching with the pain of having the prosthetic on too long. Stepping into the shower he groans loudly as the heat of the spray washes over his body, warmth seeping into his skin and soothing his aching muscles. Shiro scrubs soap into his skin, too vigorously and too many times, leaving his pale skin red and raw, but at least he finally feels _clean_.

Dressing in comfortable clothes, Shiro pads into his kitchen, throwing some leftover lasagne in the microwave and getting out a fork. He’s hungry, hasn’t eaten since this morning and threw his breakfast up, but he also feels like he never wants to eat again.

Shiro leans his hip against the counter and waits, trying to quieten his mind.

Any remnant of paranoia faded after copious hours spent telling his story over and over and over again. The more he spoke about it, the more ridiculous his fear seemed. The man wasn’t following him, it was clearly a coincidence, and Shiro was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Questioning after questioning and that’s what the police surmised of his situation. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Yet something at the edge of his mind twitches and squirms, begging for attention.

A muted creak wrenches Shiro from his thoughts and his head automatically tilts, listening carefully, but hears nothing more. Walking silently on the hardwood floor, he creeps forward to inspect the hallway, eyes darting about the shadowed passage but discerning nothing suspicious.

He breathes a soft sigh. _So much for the paranoia disappearing._

A rush of nearby movement makes Shiro swivel and he barely moves in time to avoid the fatal attack. Razor sharp pain sears through in his shoulder as the blade slices into his flesh as he stumbles backwards and collides bodily with the wall. The attacker is about to come at Shiro again when he’s knocked away by another man.

This man is tall and lean with an undercut of messy brown hair, his broad shoulders squared off confidently as he faces the attacker. He evades the arcing slashes of the knife with practised grace and manages to disarm the attacker with a crippling twist of his arm, dislocating his shoulder with a nauseating crunch of ligaments. The tall man gives the attacker no time to recover, picking up the fork Shiro set on the bench and stabbing it up into the attacker’s throat.

As the attacker fumbles at his neck feebly, gasping and choking, blood bubbling between his lips, and finally falling to the floor. The tall man casually twists a silencer onto the pistol he pulls from his shoulder holster. He presses his shoe into the attacker’s stomach and unloads one round into his head and two in his chest.

Shiro grips the shallow but bleeding cut in his upper arm and stares wide eyed at the man, pressing himself against the wall and remaining as still as possible. Horrified, he flinches as the tall man turns around.

“Yo, Shiro,” he says casually, saluting with two fingers and holstering his gun. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Wh-What? Who…?”

The microwave beeps, making Shiro start, and the man glances over at it.

“Thank fuck, I’m _starving_ ,” he says, marching over to the microwave and removing the lasagne. He glances down at the fork impaled in the dead man’s throat and grimaces. “Ack, gonna need a new fork though.”

Stepping over the dead body, the tall man grabs another fork from the utensil draw and then slumps down casually on a stool at the kitchen island. He’s about to dig into the food when he seems to notice Shiro’s alarm and a sheepish expression crosses his face.

“Shit, sorry, I forgot that you…” he trails off, eyeing Shiro with surprising concern.

Shiro finds his voice, frustration boiling up from under the surface of terror. “What the _fuck_ is going on?”

A smile twitches at the corner of the man’s lips. “Hmm, now _that’s_ more like the Shiro I know and love. Little less grr-rawr anger and a little more exasperated scowling and you’ve got it perfect!” He grins brilliantly, dimpling his cheeks.

“This is… I… Who are you?” Shiro stutters, feeling warm with embarrassment more than anything. He should really feel more troubled by the dead man in the widening pool of blood on the floor of his kitchen, or the fact that he’s having a conversation with the man who killed him. But mostly, he’s confused. “How do you know me?”

“Names Lance! We—uh… worked together. You were my mentor before, y’know,” he says, tapping his temple like it answers everything. It doesn’t.

_Takashi..._

Shiro hears Lance’s voice in his head, whispering his name reverently. It’s the voice he’s been hearing since lunch, since the shooting. Lance’s voice.

Shiro’s eyes widen and he _feels_ it. Lance’s heated brown skin, smooth beneath his fingertips and lips and tongue, trembling and writhing. He inhales the spicy warmth of Lance’s body and his desperate gasping breaths, swallowing his stuttered moans. Eyes so beautiful Shiro never wants to stop gazing into them and so intensely blue he’d happily drown in their depths.

Lance sighs and walks around island bench towards him. “I should probably reactivate you, jumpstart your memories and all that. I just…” He swallows hard. “Promise not to be mad?”

“Lance…” Shiro breathes, taking a step forward.

Brow furrowing, Lance tilts his head curiously. “You… remember me? That’s not…”

Taking another step forward, Shiro reaches out, fingers trailing the stubbled edge of Lance’s sharp jaw and staring into those blue eyes, losing himself in them. Lance is frozen, lips parting in clear surprise and Shiro follows the movement of his mouth, enthralled. Lance jerks his head away from Shiro’s touch, discomfort creasing his features, and stumbles back a step, tailbone hitting the island.

Shiro blinks away his daze. “I—I’m sorry. I don’t know what I… Sorry.” He stares down at his hand.

“It—It’s okay,” Lance says, clearing his throat. “It’s not your fault. My presence is probably triggering memories. Somehow.”

“Memories…?”

“It’ll probably just be easier to reactive you. If I can find… the damn… code,” Lance mumbles, searching through the pockets of his black jeans and then his oversized blue hoodie. “Ah hah! Found it, had to write it down because I had to get rid of my phone… for obvious trackable reasons. Um… ‘Obsidian Panther prowls through the forest, sees all, hears all, biding his time,’” he frowns at the piece of paper in his hand. “Really, dude? Fuck sakes that’s _lame_ , you’d think they could—Shiro?”

There’s a high pitched ringing in Shiro’s ears, growing louder and louder, building unbearable pressure, like a kettle boiling in his head. He grips his head as if physically attempting to hold it together, agony bursting through his nervous system and crippling his awareness. Images rush through his mind, memories he’d been compelled to forget overwhelming his senses.

Suddenly everything is silent. Shiro can hear the reliably steady beating of his heart and the calmness of his breathing. The piercing pain is gone, leaving only a dull ache, mind understandably stressed with fresh, forced clarity.

Lance’s arms are around him, barely holding up his weight, and his head is tucked against Lance’s chest. Shiro inhales the familiar heady scent of him and then straightens, stepping away from an extremely worried Lance.

“Shiro?” he asks, voice soft with uncertainty.

“I remember,” he assures. “Not everything—just—fragments, images. What I am, or… what I _was_ , the Altea Agency, my work and training you.”

“I didn’t know it would hurt you,” Lance breathes, scratching the back of his neck. “Makes sense though, all those mental blocks lifting from your mind at once. Or maybe not all at once. Maybe your brain needs to get it back gradually or it would be too much to handle, cause an aneurism or something.”

Shiro nods slowly, pressing his fingers to his temple firmly before pushing back the mess of his longer hair. Turning his head he glimpses the dead man in the pool of blood and frowns, recognising his dark, simple uniform.

“He’s Altean…” Shiro comments, glancing up at Lance questioningly. Lance winces and averts his gaze to his feet, like a child who knows he’s done something bad and is about to be scolded. “ _Why_ is there a dead Altean Agent in my house?”

Lance scuffs the toe of his Nike against the floor uncomfortably and doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to though. The shooting today; that kind of precision from the distance of that building, there aren’t many snipers in the world who can do that in a crowd of people. The dead assassin following him at the park, another Altean Agent, likely a secondary in case Lance couldn’t…

“I was your target,” Shiro states, his jaw clenching with frustration. “You defied the Agency? Lance… _Fuck!_ ” he growls, hand curling into a fist as fear twists in his stomach. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Defying them is a death sentence, they’ll hunt you down for this!”

“And if I hadn’t done it you’d be dead!” Lance snaps with uncharacteristic aggravation.

“Better me than you.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Shiro, your whole hero shtick is getting ridiculous. I wasn’t just going to sit there and watch someone kill you, let alone kill you myself.”

“But you’d be safe,” Shiro says so softly it’s almost a whisper and Lance’s expression crumples, sadness lining his features before he ducks his head. Shiro sighs and scrubs his hand down his face. “How could you do something so utterly stupid?”

Lance snorts a wry laugh. “Well, I’ve never exactly been known for being smart. And you promised not to be mad!”

“I did no such thing.”

Lance opens his mouth to argue, closes it and frowns. “Oh. Right.”

Despite himself, Shiro smiles and shakes his head fondly.

He looks down to inspect himself. It’s been four years but not much has changed in his physique as he’s maintained a decent training routine, though a much less intensive one. The difference will present in his combat reflexes. His hair is longer, undercut grown out with black hair tickling at his ears and the nape of his neck. Shiro gazes down at the stump of his right arm and is unsurprised that the agency detached his bionic arm, the technology far too advanced for a civilian.

“We should probably, y’know, skedaddle,” Lance says, glancing at Shiro nervously. “Before more people show up to kill you.”

“And you.”

“And me,” he agrees, nodding. “You should pack some clothes and stuff. Just avoid electronics. No phone or laptop or tablet.”

Shiro raises a single eyebrow. “I’m sorry, who trained you?”

Lance smirks. “You. Just making sure your old man brain’s keeping up with the reactivation.”

Scoffing a laugh, Shiro shoves him in the chest playfully and heads to his bedroom. Grabbing a duffel bag from his closet, Shiro packs clothes and toiletries, meticulously checking everything for bugs. Pressed for time, he wraps a sufficient tourniquet around the still weeping cut on his upper arm and decides not to wear his prosthetic with the open wound, placing it carefully in the duffle.

When he’s done he glances around his room and realises how bare it is, how bare his whole house is. He shivers at the four hollow years he’s spent here, away from the work he loved and the people he was closest to. There are glimpses of faces but they hover frustratingly out of reach. All except Lance, but all the memories of him are jumbled and confusing. The emotion is there, the longing ache in his chest that Shiro doesn’t completely understand.

There is the tall, lanky kid Shiro first met, grinning mischievously with surprising cunning and impossibly good aim. Then there are eyes full of undeniable affection, the warmth of his body pressed against Shiro’s and hungry lips easily unravelling Shiro. But there is nothing in between, a complete disconnect that leaves Shiro unsettled and apprehensive.

 _What happened?_ Shiro wonders, closing his eyes and recalling the uncertainty and distress in Lance’s eyes earlier. _Lance…_


	2. Difficult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the date is important as there will be flashbacks

**14:23 – January 14 th 2012**

Shiro strolls through the familiar white walled corridors of Altea Agency headquarters, young Agents staring at him with wide eyes before remembering themselves and saluting, barking a respectful but faltering, “Sir!” He forces a courteous nod as he passes and his acute senses easily discern their whispers of ‘living legend’ and ‘Kerberos Mission’ and ‘war hero’.

While understanding their fascination of the sensationalism that surrounds his name and scarred face, their awe and blind hero worship makes Shiro uncomfortable. They don’t know him or what really happened during the mission. They don’t know that for days his skin was sticky with blood; they don’t know that he spent most of his time attempting to physically hold people’s bodies together as they died in his arms; they don’t know that he had to choke the life out of multiple men just to survive; they don’t know that he pissed himself when he thought he was going to die; they don’t know that it took three agonising hours, screaming and sobbing, to wrap the remaining shredded flesh of his arm to stem the bleeding. All they know is that he saved people he shouldn’t have been able to, survived an ordeal he had no right to and returned to be put on a pedestal as a ‘hero.’

It’s why he tends to avoid the Field Agent building these days. But Matt, his best friend and the Altea Agency’s Recruit Commander, has requested a visit, so here Shiro is.

Standing in front of an observation room is Matt, leaning in a casual slouch against the cold concrete wall. His suit is cheap and untidy, with his tie lop-sided and shirt coming untucked, but he’s never been one to care about appearances. Matt’s a Technical Expert, unlike Shiro and other frontline Field Agents he has no need to worry about his appearance.

A smile brightens Matt’s face as he notices Shiro approach. “Hey, Shiro! I was worried you weren’t going to make it.”

“You threatened to program every tech device I own to turn on and play porn at full volume at random intervals throughout the day,” Shiro deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest as he stops before him.

“That was actually Katie’s idea. Quite proud of her for that one,” Matt says, grinning delightedly and completely unapologetic. “And it got you here, didn’t it? Trust me, Shiro, you’re going to be so glad you came.”

Shiro shakes his head with fond exasperation. “If you say so. What it is?”

“Not ‘what’ but ‘who.’ I was out on a routine training mission with two of my most promising recruits and this kid took them down without even breaking a sweat,” Matt explains, amber eyes alight with excitement. “I know you’re not training anymore but I seriously think you should consider it for this kid. He’s… Well, I think he’s going to be something special.”

Shiro quirks an eyebrow. “More special than Katie?”

“Well, no. Obviously no one is _that_ amazing and intelligent.”

“More special than Keith?”

“N-No, Keith’s…” Matt trails off, his pale, freckled cheeks colouring easily. Shiro smirks smugly; getting a one up on Matt and teasing him for a change is a rare and rewarding accomplishment. “Just—a different kind of special. A new kind of special. I’ve never seen anything like him, Shiro.”

“Because he beat up two of your recruits?” Shiro questions sceptically.

Matt rolls his eyes. “No, you moron, for more than that. How long have I been doing this job? How long have I been your best friend? Can you just freaking trust me and go talk to him?” he finishes, shoving a folder at Shiro’s chest.

Shiro chuckles and accepts it. “Okay, okay. Why me though? You have plenty of excellent trainers, yourself included.”

“He’s… difficult,” Matt admits, grimacing slightly. “With your perceptiveness and innate leadership capabilities I’m fairly certain you’ll be the only one that can handle the kid. You’ll see why. Allura’s waiting impatiently in the observation room, her shiny stiletto no doubt tapping away disapprovingly. I’m going to join her. Good luck!”

Shiro raises his eyebrows in surprise as he watches Matt leave, he hasn’t needed ‘luck’ in a very long time, and opens the dossier in his hand.

Lance McClain: twenty years of age, 6 feet 2 inches, unknown occupation and fairly standard public education history that he failed to finish. He has a long list of ‘suspected’ crimes to his name, including theft and destruction of public property, and has been ‘associated’ with many illicit activities and disreputable people in the city but has never been convicted. Understandable considering how little actual evidence there is to prove his guilt.

Shiro frowns at the odd compilation of police reports mentioning Lance. It’s almost impossible to be suspected of such a wide variety of crimes without having been caught. Either he’s innocent and someone in the police force has it out for him, making false reports and accusations, or he’s guilty as all hell and is an absolute criminal mastermind in his ability to get away with it.

Closing the folder, Shiro straightens his tie and squares his shoulders before entering the interrogation room. The small room is bare except for a lone table with chairs either side of it, and a one-way mirror along one of the walls, connecting to the observation room. Occupying one of the chairs is a lanky, messy haired man, his chair tilted backwards casually as he stares up at the ceiling, one long leg propped up on the table for balance.

 _There’s no way this scrawny kid took down Matt’s two recruits,_ Shiro thinks critically, closing the door behind him. Shiro has met said recruits, tall and broad and fast and strong, the most promising they’ve seen since Keith. Lance must be an adept, intelligent fighter to be able to take them down with his lean frame.

“Yo, can we get this over with?” Lance mutters idly, without moving his gaze from the ceiling. “It’s so fucking boring in here, man.”

Wordlessly, Shiro walks over to the remaining chair and sits, primly opening the folder and retrieving a pen from inside his jacket pocket. When he doesn’t receive a response, Lance swings his legs off the table and sits forward in his chair.

Immediately Shiro is drawn in by dazzling blue eyes, capturing him with their intensity and washing over him with their peaceful beauty. Lance’s smooth, unblemished skin is a lovely brown tone that exudes warmth, especially surrounded by sharp lines and dull grey concrete of the room. His brown hair’s unkempt, soft waves curling this way and that, and his nose and cheeks are scattered with a galaxy of freckles.

Lance’s face splits into a blindly grin that makes Shiro blink rapidly and shake himself of the incredibly unprofessional trance he seems to have befallen. That’s certainly never happened before.

“Woah…” Lance breathes, gaze raking over Shiro unabashedly. “ _Nice_ suit, dude, you must get paid the big bucks. Though that body totally deserves to be walking around clad in Armani. I swear, if more cops looked like you I’d get wrongly accused more often.”

Settling his professional stoic mask back in place, Shiro narrows his gaze on Lance. “Wrongly accused? You attacked two police officers.”

Lance snorts a humourless laugh. “Yeah right. If they were ‘police officers,’ I’m Mary friggin’ Poppins.” He slouches back in his chair, long legs stretching out casually either side of Shiro under the narrow table. He tries not to notice, he really does. “I’m out there, minding my own damn business, when these two meatheads come outta nowhere and start havin’ a go at me, tellin’ me to leave because ‘it’s not safe.’ Certainly didn’t identify themselves as officers and just started shovin’ me when I refused. I ain’t just gonna take that shit, I ain’t no pushover, man!”

Shiro glances down at the dossier in front of him thoughtfully. It’s a major slip up that the two recruits hadn’t handled themselves professionally in public, but that’s not Shiro’s concern. His current concern is Matt. How could he see anything special in Lance? With his inelegant and uneducated speech, Shiro doesn’t see anything besides some possibly good hand-to-hand combat sense and a whole lot of luck. Surely there is more to him than this...

“Looked like a fuckin’ shady police operation, if you ask me,” Lance continues, eyes flickering between the dossier and Shiro’s face. “Not that you actually are police.”

Shiro glances up at him, frowning curiously. “What makes you think that?”

Lance tilts his head, a smirk curling at his mouth. “It feels different. The facility is too clean and far too organised, with clear displays of investment and importance. Lower level government controlled operations are managed with deficient resources to moderate expectations in order for secret agencies to cover up the truly precarious political and criminal complications without repercussion.”

Shiro finds himself holding his breath as he observes Lance’s complete and utter transformation. His entire presence seems to alter, surprisingly broad shoulders squaring as he straightens and leans his elbows on the table, smiling confidently. Gone is the foul-mouthed delinquent and sitting before Shiro now is a dangerously eloquent and perceptive young man. It’s like looking at a completely different person.

And Shiro sees it, he sees it so clearly he can’t believe he’d been so blind to it initially. But he supposes that’s the point. Lance is a chameleon, an actor; manipulative and deceptive, he exposes only what he wants you to see, discloses only what he allows you to hear.

“For someone so mysterious and secretive you have an odd tendency to run your mouth,” Shiro responds without pause, masterfully hiding his surprise. This is, after all, Shiro’s specialty as well; this is why Matt requested him. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you not to reveal your hand too soon?”

“Why do you think it’s too soon?” Lance leans forward, murmuring in quiet, clandestine tones. “What makes you think I’m not _exactly_ where I want to be?”

“Are you?”

Lance laughs, leaning back in his chair once more and affecting an indifferent air as he shrugs. “Or maybe I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Shiro stares at him a long moment and Lance’s complacent smile never wavers, utterly unintimidated by his situation and by Shiro. Or convincingly appearing as such. Despite years of practice in reading people, despite the fact that it’s his profession, it’s impossible for Shiro to tell and that sends an electric tremor of excitement pulsing through his body. Without a word, Shiro closes the folder and rises from his chair. Decision made, he makes his way to the door.

“Do you think you could get me my cigarettes?” Lance questions flippantly. “Some of us have nicotine addictions you know. It’s cruel and unusual punishment to deprive me.”

Shiro huffs a laugh. “I’m sure you’ll survive, Lance.”

“Oh well. At least your enticing presence has alleviated the cravings,” Lance comments playfully, winking at him. “I’ll see you soon, Shiro.”

Unfaltering, Shiro exits the room, jaw clenching as he considers unnerving possibilities of how Lance knows his name. Matt wouldn’t have said any names in Lance’s presence, not even the recruits would for it would be an irreparable breach and prompt termination of contract. The Altea Agency is a top secret government organisation, run independently from any other government agency, smaller and far more elite. His name isn’t on public record as anything more than a Detective at a falsified precinct with detailed records in place in case anyone goes looking.

Lance had known about the Altea Agency then. He’d known where to go to find Agents. He’d wanted to get caught. He knows Shiro’s name. He possibly even knows far more than that about the Agency, information that is supposed to be impossible to gain access to. The question is, how? And why don’t they know? How is it that Lance has more secrets than the most secret government agency in the country?

Matt and Allura exit the observation and approach him. Matt’s practically trembling with enthusiasm and Allura’s scowl is more prominent and intimidating than usual in her severe business suited visage.

“See! What did I tell you?” Matt says, grinning broadly. “Isn’t he _amazing_?”

Allura shakes her head. “I don’t like him. Even if Shiro can train him and gain some semblance of control over him, he’s too dangerous. He’s too deceitful and manipulative, we can never truly know where his loyalties lie.”

“Okay, but, he just deceived and surprised Shiro! Do you have any idea what that means? Do you have any idea the things he could be capable of with some training? The places he could talk himself into and the people he could talk circles around. The possibilities are endless!”

“That is _precisely_ what makes him so dangerous.”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

As head of the Altea Agency, Shiro can see why Allura is opposed to the idea of taking Lance on as a recruit and future agent. It’s her job to keep the shit from hitting the fan and from that performance Lance looks like a veritable shitstorm. Meanwhile it’s Matt’s job to keep the fan spinning, replacing old parts with new and improved parts, and Lance is a shiny upgrade with innumerable potential.

“You’re wrong, Matt,” Shiro concludes, breaking down the important information from his interaction with Lance. “He knows an impossible and dangerous amount of information about the Agency, and what does he do with that highly classified information? Seeks us out, gets captured and interrogated. Lance isn’t our enemy, he _wants_ to be here. You’re right though, he’s something special and well worth the risk.”

“Does that mean you’ll be his mentor?” Matt questions, smile bright and eyes wide with knowing elation.

Shiro catches Allura’s disapproving eye. Matt’s decision overrules hers on recruitment matters, especially with Shiro’s support. He’s always thought Allura’s played it too safe, even if that is practically in her job description. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“I will,” Shiro confirms before turning on his heel to leave. He throws over his shoulder, “Since you found him I’ll leave the honour of completing his paperwork to you, Matt.”

He hears Matt’s dramatically aggrieved groan and feels Allura’s penetrating gaze on him as he walks away.

 

* * *

 

**23:02 – September 27 th 2017**

Sitting in Shiro’s surrogate kitchen, Lance pushes his fork back and forth through the lasagne absentmindedly. He’s hungry and knows just how good Shiro’s cooking is, but he can’t seem to stomach it. He’s too distracted. It’s all so much to process, to worry about.

He’s had all day, hours and hours of doing nothing but dodging the Agency and keeping an eye on Shiro, still it wasn’t enough to prepare him. Seeing Shiro again felt like standing in the eye of a hurricane, a beautiful, peaceful moment of unbelievable clarity. Lance felt like he could finally breathe again. And then the chaotic shitstorm that is his life consumed him once more, brutal and suffocating.

Lance raises his hand to his jaw, trailing the tingling warmth that remains long after Shiro’s touch disappeared. He’s missed it, the natural comfort of Shiro’s touch, more than he can describe and certainly more than he can admit. Too much has happened, too much has changed.

A muted thump alerts Lance, heart leaping with a burst of adrenaline. He shoves his chair back and is halfway across the kitchen before Shiro calls out.

“I’m okay,” he assures from the bedroom, intuitively aware of Lance’s panic and likely hearing the jarring scrape of the chair he’d been sitting on. “I dropped something.”

Lance breathes out a relieved sigh and hesitates before asking, “Do you need help?”

“No, I’m good.”

Lance can’t help the fond smile that curls at the corners of his mouth. Bleeding, likely unable to wear his prosthetic and head aching from the Reactivation, Shiro’s stubbornness knows no bounds. He never wants to put anyone out or be a burden, gallantly bearing everything on those immense shoulders without second thought.

Smile faltering, Lance glances around at the room, void of personality just like the rest of this house that he could never refer to as Shiro’s. He wonders how Shiro came to be here in this cold, surrogate life. Wonders if it was the fault of Shiro’s selflessness, if he bore the burden so others didn’t have to.

Lance remembers what happened, he just doesn’t understand _why_ it happened. He doesn’t understand why Shiro was taken from him. He doesn’t understand why Shiro let it happen.

“Lance?”

Shiro’s voice breaks through his contemplation and Lance turns to find Shiro frowning at him with concern, likely not the first time he called his name. Shiro has a duffle bag slung over his shoulder and he’s put on a hoodie, sneakers and a baseball cap, ready to leave. His long black and white hair’s been tied in a messy knot at the back of his head and, really, it suits him far too well. Lance curls his fingers to stop himself from wanting to thread his fingers through it – not for the first time – and forces a smile, shuffling back to grab the lasagne.

“Right, let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Lance says, grabbing the car key from his pocket and twirling them around his finger.

Without hesitation Lance makes his way out the front door and away from this purgatory Shiro’s been trapped in for four years. The mere thought of it makes him seethe and he needs to get away as fast as possible. He listens carefully as Shiro’s footsteps follow his without falter. That is until they get to the driveway and Lance unlocks the car he’s parked there, lights blinking obediently.

“Lance, why do you have a Maserati,” Shiro questions flatly.

“What?” he responds innocently, walking around to the driver side of the sleek, smoky grey GranTurismo. “It’s not like it’s mine.”

Shiro squints at him, dumbfounded. “How is that better?”

“Oh. I thought you were judging my taste.” He shrugs. “I stole it.”

“Of course you did.”

Lance rolls his eyes, climbing into the car and waiting patiently as Shiro tentatively slides into the passenger seat, settling his duffle at his feet. “Not like I can drive my car, it got blown up.”

“Of course it did,” Shiro sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “How is it that you managed to have a worse day than I did?”

“I’m skilled like that,” Lance mumbles wryly. He shoves the Tupperware container at Shiro before starting the engine with a gratifying purr. “Here, shut up and have sustenance. You must be hungry, I doubt those cops fed you and you threw up your breakfast.”

“You saw that?”

“Obviously. I had to stick around to make sure you were okay and that you were going with the police. ‘Okay’ being a relative term, of course because you looked utterly shell-shocked, which was… disturbing,” Lance said, grimacing to hide his distress. Because, honestly, it had been a real struggle to fight his protective instinct, wanting to rush over to Shiro, wrap him in a blanket and hide him somewhere safe. “I knew the Agency wouldn’t make a move while you were in custody. Too many witnesses in a busy police station.”

Shiro nods in agreement, knowing Agency protocol better than anyone. Well, possibly not in his current state. But he nods, so he must understand.

“And you’ve been dodging them all day?”

Lance reverses out of the driveway and heads through the dull suburban streets at a sedate pace, not wanting to draw attention. Or, well, _more_ attention. In the Maserati it’s difficult not to draw attention. He recalls the Agent he’d strangled in the elevator on the way down from saving Shiro, and the van blowing up a couple of blocks down from the police station where he knew Shiro would be safe for a few hours, and the Agent he’d killed at his house, and the three Agents he’d killed who rammed his car and blew it up, and grimaces.

“Yep. The hunter becomes the hunted. Like a dog with a friggin’ bone, that lot.”

He’s been working for them for five years, one would think Lance would’ve know what he was getting himself into. But he hadn’t expected them to be so harsh on his inability to follow through with the kill contract on Shiro. It’s certainly not the first time he’s disobeyed. He used to disobey Shiro at least four times a day when he was Lance’s mentor. Perhaps it was the whole killing Altean Agents thing.

Shiro’s quiet, staring down at the container in his lap with guilt etched into his face. “You really shouldn’t have—”

“You’re welcome, by the way!” Lance interrupts in a cheerfully sarcastic tone, not wanting Shiro’s guilt. Even if it had resulted in him being gravely wounded or killed or tortured, Lance wouldn’t do it differently. “I know you’re _incredibly_ grateful for me saving your life and all, blowing that guy’s head off instead of yours.”

Something about the combination of words – blowing, head, off – makes Lance have to force images from his mind; he can’t seem to ignore the memory of Shiro’s moan though. Shiro sighs heavily but when Lance glances at him there’s a fond smile curving at Shiro’s mouth, and Lance has to turn away immediately, because that isn’t helping. His grip on the steering wheel tightens and he takes a corner too quickly.

“So very grateful,” Shiro says with an edge of playful exasperation in his voice, clearly still off his game as he doesn’t seem to notice the tension in Lance’s form.

Lance shrugs. “Like to think you’d do the same for me.”

“You know I would.”

Shiro says it with such sincerity that Lance huffs a sigh and changes the subject as quickly as possible. “Eat your food. We need to get you back in fighting form to be evading and brawling with Altean Agents ASAP. As amazing as I might be, they’ll eventually throw enough Agents at me to overwhelm or get past me.”

Shiro snorts but doesn’t contend it, instead he obediently opens the lid of the container and starts eating the warm lasagne.

 _How is this still so easy?_ Lance questions of himself in the comfortable silence as he drives. Four years and it’s like not a single day has passed, bickering and teasing and… caring for each other. It shouldn’t be like this. He’s bitter, he resents Shiro for what he did, and yet he’d still do anything for him.

And… Well, he’s missed Shiro. So achingly much.

Lance doesn’t know if he can forgive Shiro. But Shiro doesn’t seem to remember much – about Lance, about the Agency, about what he did – so Lance will ignore all that for now, focus on surviving. Cross the Shiro memory bridges as he gets to them.

“Where are we going?” Shiro inquires, almost finished his food.

“The only safe place left I can think of. Hunk’s.”

Lines form between Shiro’s brows as he considers Lance’s words, murmuring Hunk’s name quietly as he tries to remember the man. His expression softens with recognition and then he frowns deeper, looking at Lance like he’s crazy.

“Hunk? Your best friend? Altean Tech and Heavy Weapons Specialist?”

And, okay, fair. Last Shiro knew he was a high up Altea Agent.

“Hunk. My best friend. _Retired_ Tech and Heavy Weapons Specialist,” Lance says with a smirk. “Calm yourself, Shirogane. I’m not _that_ stupid.”

“Retired? But he—”

There’s a flash of red and blue light and Lance glances up to see a cop car cruising along behind them, a short _whoop_ of their siren indicating that they want Lance to pull over. Adrenaline instinctively spiking through his system, Lance holds tighter onto the steering wheel and is about to floor the accelerator when Shiro’s warm fingers slide over his hand soothingly.

“No,” Shiro says sternly. Seriously, the way he can belittle with a single word is frightening. “They’re just pulling you over because of the fancy car.”

“Which is _stolen_ ,” Lance argues, though he’s already starting to slow to a stop.

“Just talk them around it,” he says with a shrug, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Lance rolls his eyes, his whole head tilting with the movement, and pulls the car over. “Oh, sure. On the run from the most lethal government agency with extensive police control and network access to all footage on any given camera at any given time, in a stolen car worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, but I’ll ‘just talk them around it,’” Lance mutters and winds down his window. Supressing the warm, gooey part of him that is practically giddy with the confidence of Shiro’s faith in him.

“Hello there, sir,” the young officer says as he reaches Lance’s window.

“Hi,” Lance says, resting his elbow casually on the window sill and smiling disarmingly up at the officer.

He falters, his mouth falling open slightly as he stares. Without taking his eyes off the first officer – Davis, according to his shiny name badge – Lance notices in his periphery of the side mirror, the second officer standing behind Davis, frowning and immediately nudging Davis. Shiro coughs and Lance can hear the underlying chuckle he’s covering.

“Uh, licence,” Davis stutters, then clears his throat. “S-Sorry. Can I see your licence and registration please, sir?”

“Of course you can, Officer Davis,” Lance assures with indistinguishably false sincerity. He leans in a bit closer and adds, under his breath, “I can never say no to a gorgeous face.”

Lance winks and doesn’t miss the flush of Davis’ cheeks before he reaches across Shiro to open the glove box, his forearm unavoidably pressing against Shiro’s muscled thigh. Inside are the car’s registration papers as well as the licence of one of the employees at the car showroom he stole the Maserati from. With his hidden left hand, Lance sends a pre-written message to Hunk.

Handing over the registration papers and licence, Lance makes sure his fingers lightly touch Davis’ and he almost drops them as a result. Davis glances down at the licence.

“Thank you, ah, Mr Ramirez,” he says with a shaky voice. “It will just take a moment for my colleague to check everything is in order.”

The other officer – Henrik, Lance finally gets a clear look at his badge – snatches the papers and licence from Davis’ hands with an irritated huff. Davis remains, taking half a step back to regard the Maserati, thumbs in his belt loops as he forces a casual pose.

“Please, you can call me Sam,” Lance says smoothly, eyeing Davis intently. “I’m a Maserati Salesman, I’m moving this beast out to our Greater East Showroom. Fucking gorgeous isn’t he?”

Lance can actually see Davis’ breath hitch as he makes eye-contact once more, pulse point at the collar of his navy blue shirt leaping rapidly under his skin. He mutters out a barely audible agreement and Lance smiles brilliantly, flashing two rows of perfectly white teeth. Keith nicknamed him ‘Hollywood’ because of this smile – thinking, in his adorably small brain, that it’s an insult. Lance’s made many people visibly weak with this smile and Davis is no exception, stumbling forward a step as if drawn to Lance.

“I can get you into a test drive if you’d like, Officer Davis. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the ride,” Lance practically purrs, every word laced with every pleasurable insinuation possible. “I know I certainly will.”

Davis is attempting to stutter a response when Henrik trudges back over, shoving the registration papers and licence back into Lance’s window in frustration. “Called your boss and he gave the a-okay. You’re free to go, Mr Ramirez.”

Henrik all but drags Davis back to their police cruiser and when Lance rolls his window all the way up Shiro bursts into laughter. Lance simply smiles as he continues driving, shooting Hunk a quick thumbs up emoji. Hunk having intercepted the phone call Officer Henrik would have had to make to the Maserati showroom, and likely reaming Henrik for daring to interrupt his employee.

“Jesus, Lance.” Shiro’s still laughing, but slowly calming down. Lance feels disappointed he can’t watch the phenomenon in full as he’s driving. Shiro rarely laughs like this; in fact he barely ever smiled when Lance first met him. “Laid it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”

“You clearly missed the part about us being wanted by one of the deadliest government agencies in the world. If Hunk hadn’t intercepted the call or if they really looked at this licence that is so clearly not mine, charming the pants off Officer Soon-To-Be-Coming-Out-Of-The-Closest was my next best bet.”

“You’re amazing,” Shiro says without falter or even an ounce of pretence. Like it’s obvious, simple; like it’s not the most wonderful compliment someone has given Lance in years.

“Well, duh,” Lance responds, punching out the words with all the confidence he’s so good at faking.

After a few moments of Shiro collecting himself, he says, “So how exactly did Hunk retire? And why? He’s very young, and very good at what he does. I’m surprised Allura allowed him to go.”

“Special circumstances, and with adhering to certain requirements,” Lance explains, heart aching momentarily with the memory of Hunk’s saddened, teary face as he’d told them the reason he was quitting. “His mother was ill, and there was no one else to look after her. Hunk still does some work for the Altea Agency here and there, but it’s considered freelance.”

“Past tense,” Shiro comments softly.

Lance nods. “She passed away six months ago.”

Shiro glances out the window but otherwise remains quiet. Shiro was close with Hunk, even before Lance and Hunk became best friends. Shiro had visited Hunk’s mother occasionally and Hunk brought his mother to the Holt family Christmas party every year. Loretta was young and lively and a part of their unconventional, extended family. They all adored her.

“Cancer?”

“Tumour,” Lance answers simply.

Shiro curses, his voice breaking.

Lance doesn’t know what to say. He’s had his time of mourning, even if it still hurts, even when Hunk still looks distraught when he visits sometimes, Lance knows how to deal with it. For Shiro this is a fresh wound, a new loss, another loss.

The rest of the drive to Hunk’s house is silent as Shiro comes to terms with new information and old, returning memories. Sending Hunk a quick message, Lance drives straight into his garage, the large door sliding down behind them to conceal the stolen car as he kills the ignition. Hunk is in the garage and berating Lance before he can even fully step out of the vehicle.

“Lance, what the _actual crap_ is going on? Do you have any idea what the Agency are saying about you? They have multiple contracts out on you and their entire tech department is attempting to locate you. Honestly, you’re just freaking lucky Pidge isn’t in the country right now because she certainly would have been able to…” Hunk’s voice fades away, his mouth falling open and eyes widening at Shiro as if he’s looking at a ghost. Which is partially true, he supposes. “Shiro…”

Shiro straightens and smiles that natural, friendly – _beautiful_ – smile at Hunk. “Hi, Hunk.”

“Oh, my, _God_ ,” Hunk punches out each word with more and more drama behind it, stumbling around the car to slam into Shiro’s body with a hug. “Dude, it’s so good to see you! You don’t even know. I missed you so much!”

Hunk is tall, and big, and strong, Lance knows the crushing weight of those emotional hugs all too well and isn’t at all surprised when Shiro grunts under the force of it. He recovers quickly though, ridiculously strong himself, and wraps his arms around Hunk, patting him comfortingly on his back.

“You too, buddy.”

“I always believed in you. I always knew it wasn’t possible, that you couldn’t have done it,” Hunk says before Lance can stop him. Lance winces at the confused expression lining Shiro’s face. “It just never made sense, y’know. It doesn’t add up.”

 _Shit,_ Lance thinks. _Shit, shit, shit._ Shiro clearly doesn’t remember.

Shiro pulls back from the hug, Hunk’s hands still on his shoulders. “Couldn’t have done what?”

“Got Matt killed.”

Lance watches the myriad of expressions morph Shiro’s features in quick succession. Disbelief, worry, horror, fear, distress, and, finally, grief. Lance drops his head into his hands, rubbing his fingers into his eye sockets a tad too hard. He can’t see Shiro like this, it hurts, stabbing something sharp into his chest, carving slow and painful into his heart.

Hunk’s saying Shiro’s name over and over without any response.

The day has been too long. Lance can deal with all the escaping and killing and fighting and explosions, but the emotional turmoil is swiftly unravelling Lance’s carefully constructed façade. The effect of Shiro’s presence is too powerful for Lance to resist, he can already feel himself falling naturally back into Shiro’s orbit and he hates himself for it. Promised himself he wouldn’t. Because it’s too difficult, it hurts too much, there is too much pain and resentment there.

_I’m sorry, Lance…_

_Fuck you, Takashi._


	3. Interesting

**08:00 – January 16 th 2012**

Shiro enters the combat training gymnasium and is immediately surrounded by sounds of grunting in effort and as air is knocked from lungs. The expansive room is filled with sparring partners or groups of two or three against one, training in all sorts of different combat techniques. This is part of the basic routine for all Altea Agents. An hour in hand-to-hand and thirty minutes target practice, with optional obstacle courses and special weapons training for those in the highest ranking programs, like the Voltron program Shiro’s a part of.

Lance is already here, waiting for him and watching him as he approaches. Shiro’s uncertain where the blatant ogling and flirting come into Lance’s cunning nature and strategic mind. After their initial meeting, Shiro assumes it’s a power play as the flirting is either off-putting or distracting, with no middle ground.

 _He’s… difficult_ , Matt had said.

It’s easy enough to ignore Lance’s intense gaze roaming up and down Shiro’s body. He’s accustomed to it, having used his body and his looks enough in missions to manipulate and seduce. If Lance thinks it’s enough to throw Shiro off, he’ll need to devise a new plan.

“You’re early,” Shiro comments.

“You know what they say, early bird catches the worm,” Lance says, winking at him.

Shiro’s gaze slides swiftly down Lance’s form, down the plain white Altea t-shirt stretching across his surprisingly broad shoulders and the black sweat pants that are low on his hips and hang loosely around his long legs. He notices the minor curl of Lance’s fingers and the slight bend of his knees. Tension. No matter how well he controls his heartrate, that Shiro discerns pulsing steadily in his neck, Lance is clearly on edge. _Covering for nervousness then,_ Shiro decides, a little disappointed.

“Matt informed me that you incapacitated two of his best recruits without breaking a sweat. Like to show me how exactly you did that?”

“Those two goons were his _best_?” Lance questions dubiously. “Dude needs to get some better recruits.”

“Hence why you’re here,” Shiro discloses easily. Lance has been staying at Altea HQ on lockdown for the last two nights since he was brought in as they waited for the green light – psych evaluations, medical examinations and so on. Lance is in the system now, no point keeping basic information from him. “Have you been trained in any specific combat style?”

Lance narrows his eyes on Shiro, approaching the soft fall mat he’s standing on and looking more relaxed, a smirk curling his lips.

“You’re the expert, why don’t you tell me?”

With that Lance lunges, catching Shiro a little off-guard, but his reflexes are too quick for it to affect his reaction. Shiro evades the hit, but it’s a feint, and Lance easily throws his shoulder up into Shiro’s ribs, making Shiro grunt and knocking him a few steps sideways. Pain burns through his left side as he remembers the fresh blooms of black and blue bruises painted across his ribs. Knowing Lance has the decency not to attack him whilst he’s incapacitated, Shiro takes a moment to regain his breath and when he straightens Lance is grinning at him, head tilted haughtily.

“Oh no, I’m _so_ sorry, Shiro. Are you injured?”

Lance’s voice is dripping with sarcasm, his incredible awareness having discerned Shiro’s injury despite his instinctive effort to conceal it. And, honestly, it’s completely fair. Shiro has been underestimating him since they first met. Shiro notices Lance’s relaxed stance, his fingers curled and knees slightly bent in preparation, not with anxiety. Deception in every muscle, every expression, every sound. That’s who Lance is.

Shiro shakes his head, no. “Just some bruising, nothing to worry about.”

He promptly pushes forward with a flurry of attacks, slowing himself to get a feel for Lance’s speed and getting knocked to his knee for his effort. _Okay, fine_ , Shiro thinks, getting to his feet. _Kid doesn’t like to be coddled. He won’t be._

Shiro starts sparing in earnest, pushing Lance into being defensive instantly, but Lance just grins, dodging and blocking Shiro’s strikes. Shiro’s too fast for him, gets some hits in, but Lance takes them well and doesn’t let them slow him down. It’s Lance’s strategy in combat that’s intriguing for someone who hasn’t spent his life studying or practising combat techniques, it must simply stem from his keen perception. In his technique Shiro mostly recognises intermediate MMA styles, scrappy and inelegant.

They spend an hour sparring, with short breaks in between in which Lance attempts to hide his exhaustion and pain, with no success. Shiro’s not overly impressed but respects his effort, his desire not to be handled with kid gloves, and his apparent enjoyment for hard work – despite his dramatic, whiny complaints about Shiro’s ‘high-tech robo arm’ being a ‘totally unfair advantage.’

“Oh, c’mon, Shiro, it’s been an hour!”

Shiro rolls his eyes, Lance has been saying this for the past fifteen minutes and it hasn’t been true until this moment.

“Go shower,” he dismisses.

Lance pumps his fist into the air in victory and jogs his way out of the gymnasium towards the locker rooms. Shiro follows at a more sedate pace, grabbing a provided fluffy white towel and wiping his sweaty forehead with it. There are a few Agents along the way who greet him, their voices hopeful and seeking attention. He smiles politely but otherwise ignores their requests for assistance or advice.

When he enters the locker room, Shiro can vaguely hear someone singing over the constant noisy spray of the showers. It’s unusual, in his eight years at Altea he’s never heard anyone singing in the showers before. Retrieving a clean towel, Shiro takes off his shoes and socks before making his way over to the entrance of the showers. A couple of men inside are barely paying attention to their own cleaning efforts as they all stare in the direction of the singing man.

Long and lean limbed with warm brown skin that glistens under the water, standing in the middle of the shower room and singing unabashedly, is Lance. Noticing Lance’s solid, leanly muscled shoulders and chest, Shiro finds himself wondering how he ever thought he was scrawny. On his right shoulder blade is a stylised water lily tattoo, black lines with splashes of blue and purple. Facing the wall, away from Shiro, Lance is singing Beyond the Sea as he lathers his body with soapy suds.

“ _I know, beyond a doubt, my heart, will lead me there soon_ ,” Lance sings, voice powerful and carefree.

“You shouldn’t ogle your recruit, Shiro.” He recognises Matt’s playful voice without even turning to see him, though Shiro does start and whirl towards him. Matt’s eyebrows are raised mischievously, which can only man bad things for Shiro. “Is that drool?”

“Like you can talk,” Shiro bristles under his breath, making sure Matt can hear him, and is rewarded with Matt’s sheepish expression.

“He wasn’t _my_ recruit.”

Shiro rolls his eyes at the technicality. “What are you doing here?”

“Checking up on my shiny new recruit. Seeing how the two of you are getting along.”

Shiro sighs, the movement aching through his ribs and the injury Lance had taken advantage of. “I have to shower. Meet us at the shooting range, we’ll be there in a few.”

“Have fun,” Matt teases with a wink before leaving.

Shiro undresses and settles under the spray of warm water, questioning his taste in friends. Tuning Lance’s voice out, because it’s really nice and makes unwelcome warmth swell in his chest, Shiro focuses on hurriedly showering, washing the sweat from his body with the waterproof metal of his bionic arm.

Drying himself and dressing, Shiro waits out in the corridor. A few minutes later Lance comes traipsing out of the locker room with a casual smile, like he’s spent a long, luxurious day at the spa. Shiro’s never mentored anyone so cavalier, they’ve all been rigid and obedient, ‘yessir’ and ‘advice, sir,’ like all those Agents back in the sparring gymnasium. A top government agency that trains to military standards and Lance doesn’t seem to care.

“This isn’t a holiday, McClain,” Shiro growls, straightening from the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“Clearly, dude. If it were a holiday I’d be able to find somewhere to get a decent Margarita.”

“You will refer to be as ‘sir.’”

Lance scrutinises him then straightens into a military salute. “Sir, yessir, Shiro, sir!”

“Leaves a lot to be desired, McClain,” Shiro mumbles and as soon as the words are out of his mouth he knows it’s a mistake, evidenced by the smirk rapidly curving at Lance’s mouth and the sparkle in his eye. Before he can make a flirtatious quip, Shiro says, “Let’s go.”

Lance follows along, obedient and quiet, as they make their way to the indoor shooting range designed specifically for handguns, while there are outdoor ranges for shotguns and rifles. The first room has a wall of handguns in various makes and models, and beneath, drawers filled with different calibre ammunition. On the opposite wall is a large glass window that looks out onto the shooting range, designed for observation and slightly sound-proof, merely muting those incredibly loud bursts of gunshots that are too loud to completely suppress.

Shiro grabs a pair of soundproof earmuffs and protective glasses for Lance, passing them to him, and a pair for himself. Then he walks over to the wall of handguns and grabs a simple Glock 19, habitually loading the magazine with 9mm bullets. For now he just wants to know the extent of Lance’s shooting ability, he’ll train him in gun mechanics and maintenance later.

Noticing the unnatural quiet, Shiro glances back at Lance as he finishes loading the Glock. Lance looks cautious but not nervous around all of the guns, his eyes roaming reverently over the wall of handguns. Shiro wonders if he has any experience with guns, with all the criminal activity Lance seemed to be involved in over the years it’s hard to imagine him somehow avoiding it. But he’s looking at the guns with an inexperienced sort of excitement. That doesn’t necessarily mean much with Lance though.

 _Deceiver,_ Shiro reminds himself.

There is only one other person in the shooting range when they enter, and she seems to be packing up to leave. Most of the other Agents get their practise in earlier, starting their daily work by now. Shiro sets the Glock down at the middle shooting booth, barrel pointing down range, and sets a box of ammunition down next to it.

“Have you fired a handgun before?”

“Nah,” Lance responds easily. “Not unless you count laser tag. Or watching a lot of cop shows. Or video games.”

Shiro doesn’t detect a lie. Starting from the basics then.

“Pick up the gun and aim it at the target,” Shiro instructs and watches Lance carefully. He weighs the gun in his right hand, fingers flexing around the grip to get comfortable before supporting the gun with his left hand. “Extend your arms, set your feet a further apart and bend forward slightly from the waist.”

Standing behind him, Shiro guides Lance’s body to a proper shooting stance, moving his arms, nudging his leg with his knee and flattening his palm at the base of Lance’s spine. Lance moves easily under Shiro’s hands, pliant and relaxed.

“Better?”

The rumble of Lance’s voice makes Shiro realise how close he’s standing. Close enough to smell the spicy scent of whatever products Lance uses in his styled mop of brown hair, close enough to feel the warmth coming off his body, and close enough to feel the unwavering strength of Lance’s stance.

“Just make sure you’re view down the sight is unimpeded and straight,” Shiro says, taking a very deliberate step back.

Someone clears their throat and Shiro turns to see Matt smirking at him from the door.

“Give me a moment.”

With Lance’s hum of acknowledgement Shiro walks back into the observation room where Matt is smiling at him knowingly. One of the most important cogs in the machine of a top secret government agency: a whimsical asshole – who doesn’t have a leg to stand on in this case – who loves to tease and torment his closest friends. Matt’s just lucky he’s a damn genius.

“Stop,” Shiro says immediately. “I’m _not_ you.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Matt says, innocently raising his arms in a placating gesture, though his smile broadens. “You seem to be getting along quite well though.”

“‘Quite well’ aren’t the words I’d use. He’s disobedient and disrespectful.”

“Respect isn’t always given as a salute and polite words, Shiro. You know this. And he seems to be following your instruction just fine.”

“Only because he wants to be here, to learn how to fight and to shoot. Only because he wants to be an Agent. How the hell he’s going to follow orders in the field though, I have no idea. Lance is belligerent and treats everything with jovial nonchalance, and I truly cannot tell if it’s a façade or not. He’s so deceptive, every aspect of him… it’s unbelievably hard to get a read on him.”

Matt narrows his eyes at Shiro thoughtfully. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“He’s…” Shiro goes to repeat Matt’s initial analysis of Lance being ‘difficult,’ but instead says, “Interesting.”

“Told you he was special,” Matt says smugly. “I was getting a bit worried about you up in that solitary office, not training anyone anymore, infrequently going out on missions, and burying yourself in the bureaucracy of Altea. You’ve always hated bureaucracy, Shiro. This is this most enthusiastic I’ve seen you in a long time. All thanks to me!”

Shiro huffs a laugh. “Right, all thanks to my meddling best friend who doesn’t know how to keep his nose out of other people’s business.”

“My nose works best in other people’s business,” Matt says, nose in question scrunching in distaste with the disturbing insinuation of the words. He continues nonetheless, “Handing you Lance was like giving you an extremely challenging puzzle that you’re certainly capable of solving. I have faith in you, and him. The both of you would make an indomitable team. Perception and deception, a marriage made in heaven.”

Most people would say it’s too early to make such a judgement, but not Matt. Besides his astonishing intelligence, the man also has unparalleled instincts. Shiro knows better than to disagree, however, he certainly cannot see it working out the way Matt believes it will.

“Only time will—”

Three succinct shots ring out. And, considering the only other person already left the shooting range, Shiro knows there is only one daft recruit who could have pulled the trigger. Frustration boils up immediately and he’s about to go berate Lance when he notices Matt’s awe-widened brown eyes. Shiro whirls quickly and sees the three bullet holes in Lance’s target. Perfect bullet holes in a perfect target sheet, one in the head and two, just left of centre, in the chest.

“An experienced shooter, too,” Matt comments quietly, voice low with wonder.

“No.” Shiro shakes his head. “He said he’s never even held a gun.”

“Lie?”

“I don’t believe so.”

Matt hums thoughtfully and follows Shiro, who’s striding out furiously into the shooting range. Lance is still just standing there in his shooting stance, which is remarkably good, Lance looks very natural and comfortable.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, McClain?” Shiro barks.

Lance turns to face him slowly, gun still in his hand. “Assassination shots, right? Two in the chest, one in the head.”

“You weren’t supposed to shoot without me!”

Lance frowns and shakes his head. “You never said that.”

“It was _implied_ ,” Shiro snarls, angrily punching the button in the booth to replace the target sheet. “Do it again. Shoot.”

Shiro doesn’t miss the way Lance rolls his eyes behind his glasses before he sets himself back into his shooting stance, already replicating the way Shiro positioned him without fault. Shiro resettles his earmuffs on his head and watches the muscles in Lance’s back and shoulders flex as he takes a deep breath and slowly releases it as he squeezes the trigger. Eleven times, like perfectly timed rhythmic beats. Mesmerised, Shiro watches each bullet hit, each beat making his heart leap faster with exhilaration.

“Holy shit…” Matt breathes, pulling his earmuffs off at the same time as Shiro.

Lance breathes another deep breath before turning back to him, “Is that good?”

Shiro regards the smiley face Lance has torn into the target sheet with his bullets. Straight, symmetrical, perfect.

“You said you haven’t fired a handgun before,” Shiro accuses.

“I haven’t.”

“Clearly you have!”

Aggravation scrunches Lance’s face. “No, I haven’t! I don’t give a shit what those asshole cops put in those fictitious fucking reports, I’ve never even touched a gun before today,” he says emphatically, waving the gun around in his gesticulation, making Shiro grimace. “I may have played a lot of Battlefield but I certainly haven’t ever used a gun.”

“Stop waving the gun around,” Shiro snaps nervously.

“Oh, relax, there aren’t even any more bullets left. See.”

In demonstration, Lance points the gun back down the shooting lane and fires. The gun goes off and Lance winces guiltily, his head tucked between his raised shoulders, and freezes in place, like a child who’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Shiro heaves a sigh and drops his face into his hand.

Matt chuckles. _Chuckles!_ “Well, at least we know he’s telling the truth.”

“Lesson one: Count your damn bullets!” Shiro growls.

“Yeah, shit, sorry,” Lance rambles, putting the gun down and taking a big step back from it. “Totally my bad.”

Despite the frustration surging adrenaline through his veins, Shiro thinks he’s a lot closer to understanding Lance. This goofy, light-hearted glimpse he’s gotten seems more sincere than any other interaction he’s had, and Shiro absolutely doesn’t find it endearing. At least now he feels he has a baseline for discerning Lance’s true self, as frustrating as it may be.

 

* * *

 

**23:39 – September 27 th 2017**

Shiro feels like he can’t breathe, like he shouldn’t be breathing. _Got Matt killed_. Hunk’s words echo in his mind, haunting images of a broad, mischievous smile and intelligent brown eyes hidden under big circular-rimmed glasses.

Remembering Matt is like taking an adrenaline shot straight to the heart – which he’s actually experienced before, unfortunately – a wild influx of energy and emotion. Fond and happy, laughing and bantering, protective and caring. Matt is his best friend, Matt is his family; even if the edges are blurry and uncertain, of that he’s sure. And now he’s… gone.

Distantly Shiro’s aware he’s being moved, Lance’s hands on him, guiding him into Hunk’s house as Hunk leads the way. Those strong hands push him down into a chair, firm but gentle, lingering on his shoulders for a moment too long. Then they’re gone. Somehow Lance’s smooth voice breaks through the din of his mind and, like a lifeline, Shiro grabs onto it and holds tight.

“You didn’t have anything to do with Matt’s death,” Lance says, his voice quiet as he leans back against the kitchen table in front of Shiro. “In fact, I’m not convinced Matt’s even dead.”

Shiro blinks rapidly at that, vision focussing and roaming up Lance’s body to meet his concerned blue gaze. _My favourite colour_ , he recalls randomly.

“What happened?” Shiro croaks out.

“Do you remember the in-house trial the day you were Deactivated?” Hunk prompts, reminding Shiro of his presence where he’s sitting at the dining table with a steaming mug between his large hands.

Shiro notices there’s a hot mug in front of him too, beside Lance’s hip. Taking it in one hand and settling it on his knee, Shiro looks down into it the hot liquid, vaguely noting that it’s tea. Hunk has always loved tea, the complete opposite to Matt in this, Matt who practically had a UV drip of coffee inserted intravenous he drank so much.

Shiro nods, because he does remember most of it, the main parts of it at least. He notices Lance resettle his hands where they’re folded together in his lap, a nervous twitch Shiro knows well, but he doesn’t draw attention to it.

“I was accused of mission negligence when we took a few recruits out on a mission in Uganda. We were ambushed and lost control of our vehicles; I was the only survivor,” Shiro recalls, images of the evidence flashing through his mind. Two overturned, burnt-out vehicles, four unrecognisably charred bodies. Shiro frowns, he only remembers the pictures.

“That’s because it never happened,” Lance responds to the words Shiro must have spoken out loud. “You weren’t in Uganda, you were… with me. I testified on your behalf but they discounted it as—” Lance smiles but there’s no humour in it, it’s feral and irate. “‘An overly loyal apprentice,’ ‘naively’ trying to cover your ass. They had images of you from local cameras on the day of the accident.”

“Never mind that they have the technical expertise to fake such images,” Hunk scoffs into his mug. “Honestly, I have no idea how Allura went with all the ridonkculous findings Lotor threw at you. An ‘avalanche of evidence,’ she called it.”

Allura. Lotor. Shiro remembers imprecise outlines of them. Co-Commanders of the Altea Agency. Always immaculately presented in the finest suits, all severe and domineering. He used to work so closely with both of them. How did it come to this?

“Despite the ‘avalanche of evidence,’ they decided to be lenient,” Lance explains, practically hissing the words between his teeth. His knuckles whiten from the pressure as he squeezes his laced fingers so hard it looks painful. “Deactivation. Returned to civilian life with experimental technology that hadn’t even been tested.”

Shiro remembers the judgement, the sadness in Allura’s eyes as she passed it, speaking to him with a tone of remorse and melancholy. Lotor had seemed unhappy about it too, disappointed as he laid out the evidence of Shiro’s ‘misdeeds.’

“Then why try to kill me? I was Deactivated and it was working well, I didn’t know anything. I was no threat to anyone.”

“Kill you?” Hunk questions, face screwed up in confusion.

Shiro glances at Lance but his head is bowed and he doesn’t seem likely to answer. So Shiro says, “They’ve put a kill contract on me, set Lance as the primary.”

Hunk’s dark eyes widen in horror as his gaze slowly moves from Shiro to Lance, his expression saddening with profound emotion Shiro doesn’t quite comprehend. He understands the internal struggle Lance must have faced when he received Shiro’s contract, the decision to condemn himself to a life being hunted or to kill his mentor, his friend. Surprise would have been understandable in Hunk’s reaction, but not this overwhelming apprehension.

“Lance…” Hunk breathes, looking like he wants to reach out and hold him.

Lance stands abruptly, facing away. “I’m going to return the Maserati before anyone notices it’s been stolen,” he says before stalking off down the hallway and into the garage.

Shiro watches after him, breathing harder without knowing why, wanting to follow after him without knowing why. What would he even say? He doesn’t understand why Lance is upset, at least not to this extent. In fact, he barely recognises Lance, can barely reconcile him with the devious, playful Lance of his unfinished memories.

Hunk clears his throat after they hear the Maserati’s engine purr to life and drive away. “Probably a good idea. He needs to get back here before Pidge arrives in the country and uses her hacking magic to track him down through CCTV like the wizard she is.”

“Katie.”

Shuffling his chair forward and resting his elbows on the table, Shiro takes a sip. He remembers Matt’s little sister, impossibly bright, and somehow even more intelligent than her genius of a brother, passionate and driven. He remembers her bright grins and the way she’d leap at Shiro for a hug, knocking the air from his lungs.

“Yeah,” Hunk nods, eyeing Shiro. “Really taking a while to get those memories back, huh? As the resident neurosurgeon, Matt was the mastermind behind it, but he’d often confer with me and Pidge about the logistics. Even if most of the really technical stuff went over my head. You’re the first they ever used the Deactivation technology on, he’d want me write notes about the results of Reactivation for when we find him. I mean, _if_ we find him.”

“You don’t believe Lance? That Matt might still be alive.”

Hunk grimaces, his voice quiet when he speaks. “If he were still alive… It’s been four years, he would have found a way to contact us or—or something. Right? I mean, dude’s a genius.”

Shiro simply nods his agreement.

“Sorry,” Hunk blurts hurriedly. “I know this must be a lot, all the memories and then losing your best friend all over again.”

“It’s okay, Hunk. I’ve mourned him, I remember that much. It’s a bit of a headache though,” Shiro allows, gently massaging his temple.

Hunk squeezes his shoulder sympathetically and pushes his chair back, walking into the kitchen to rifle through a cabinet. He drops a bottle of Aspirin in front of him and Shiro thanks him, popping them in his mouth and swallowing them down with a gulp of tea.

“So you don’t remember…” Hunk starts, and then carefully reconsiders his words with a deep inhale. “I mean, what parts _do_ you remember?”

“Most of it,” Shiro says, his brow furrowing as he considers the murky holes in his memory, nudging at the edges of them curiously. “Most of my eight years as an Agent, some gaps in some of the missions, and some gaps with some of the recruits I trained.”

“But you remember Lance? Well. Obviously.”

Hunk sounds strained, awkward, like he’s trying to hint at something without giving too much away.

“I remember Lance,” Shiro nods slowly, then frowns again, thumbing the edge of his mug. “I remember meeting him, training him, sparring and shooting and… It gets a bit blurry after the first couple of months training him,” he admits, shaking himself of the uncertainty and taking a contemplative breath as he glances up at Hunk. “He seems… different, though.”

From those first couple of months training Lance, when he was a challenging puzzle – as Matt deemed him – Shiro got to know Lance. He learned how agile his deception could be, moving in and out of lies and personalities and emotions in the blink of an eye. He learned how, underneath it all, was an amusing, fun-loving kid who wanted to do real good in the world, a kid who was fiercely loyal and doggedly determined. And the longer they worked together, the more Lance grew to trust Shiro, the more he would act like his true self in Shiro’s presence. He’d let his guard down and simply be his relaxed, goofy self.

The Lance he’s reacquainted himself with today is nothing like the kid he’d initially gotten to know. Even if he sees glimpses of that true Lance, it seems stilted and guarded. Lance will bicker with him then a new, stoic mask will snap into place, clouding over those brilliant blue eyes and rendering him impersonal and distant.

“Well, he—he _is_ different. He’s…” Hunk trails off, eyes shifting back and forth over the tabletop as if searching for an answer. “With you—going, and then me—he was a bit isolated. Or, he isolated himself. He focused himself on his work, on his missions, and outside of that he didn’t really… have anything. There’s a lot I can’t—It’s for him to—”

Shiro raises his hand to put Hunk out of his conflicted misery. “It’s okay, Hunk. I get it. It’s for him to tell, if he feels comfortable enough to. I understand it’s been a difficult time for him.”

“You have no idea,” Hunk says under his breath.

“It’s been a, uh, long day,” Shiro says, a monumental understatement. “I’m assuming we’re staying the night here.”

“Oh, of course! You must be exhausted!”

Ever the best host, Hunk hurries to his feet, taking their mugs and setting them in his sink before leading Shiro down the hallway. He mutters apologies about there only being two bedrooms in the house, the spare bedroom having only a queen sized bed, but that there was also a spare single mattress up in the top of the wardrobe. Considering Lance would probably prefer not to share a bed with Shiro, he and Hunk wrangle down the single mattress and Hunk gets him some spare bedding for it.

Checking the shallow slice on his shoulder, Shiro requests some disinfectant and Hunk, as usual, goes above and beyond, bringing an entire fully stocked first-aid kit. Which proves incredibly useful and allows Shiro to dress and cover the wound properly.

“Hey, Hunk,” Shiro says, just as Hunk’s excuses himself to let Shiro sleep. Hunk turns back from the doorway. “You took a huge risk bringing us in—bringing me in—and I can’t thank you enough.”

Hunk smiles, warm and genuine. “Lance is my best friend, and I would do absolutely anything for him. And considering he’d do anything for you…” He shrugs. “Besides, I was there for the trial and Lance is right, you’re innocent in all this and don’t deserve any of it. I’ll help any way I can.”

Shiro nods and returns the smile. “Goodnight, Hunk.”

“Night, Shiro!”

With that, Hunk shuts the door and leaves Shiro to sleep.

He’s exhausted after the shock of almost being killed, spending nine hours at a police station, nearly being killed again, and then having all his memories returned. Memories that leave him with big confusing fissures of unaccounted time. Emotions he doesn’t understand. People he remembers but who’ve understandably changed over the years he’s been gone. It’s a lot for his brain to handle, his mind a confounding and inconsistent maelstrom of information, images and thoughts.

Bone-deep exhaustion draws him down into the single mattress on the floor but his brain doesn’t allow him rest. At least, he doesn’t think it does, but the next thing he hears is someone sighing heavily in the room.

“Of course your giant martyr ass would take the floor,” Lance mumbles quietly, either believing Shiro’s asleep as he rummages around in the dark or not caring if he is. Knowing Lance it’s likely the latter.

Shiro doesn’t respond, simply listens to the soft movement of fabric, imagining Lance taking his shirt off. He remembers the water lily tattoo, the strong aching sense of wanting to reach out and trace those stark lines on Lance’s brown skin. Then he hears a fly being undone, denim falling to the floor, and the shuffle of bed covers as Lance settles underneath. He can’t hear any hitch in Lance’s breath or falter in his movement, so clearly he’s not injured. Thankfully.

“Everything go okay?” Shiro asks anyway, worried more time has passed than he knows, worried Pidge has returned prematurely, worried more Altea Agents managed to find Lance.

“Maserati is bright and beautiful back in the exact position I took it from,” Lance says, settling himself comfortably under the covers. As he lets that carefully constructed guard fall marginally, Shiro can hear how tired he is. Lance seems so much more grown up, but Shiro hears that youth in his voice now. “With some additional mileage they’ll fail to wrap their puny brains around. Aliens, they’ll definitely blame aliens.”

Shiro smiles, shifting to look in Lance’s direction, though he can’t actually see him over the side of the taller queen bed combined with the darkness. “Are you okay?”

Silence, long and pensive.

“I’m okay,” Lance says, words forced and full of unconcealed emotion. He sighs then, probably frustrated knowing that he’s failing to hide these things from Shiro. Lance shifts too, and, somehow, Shiro knows he’s facing him too. “You?”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve got you to protect me after all.”

Lance snorts a laugh at the words, words he’d told Shiro on his first mission, words full of feigned sarcasm and taunting. Shiro had known that Lance meant the words at the time, despite his tone, that he’d felt safer for having Shiro there, and Shiro means them just as genuinely now. Even if they’re being hunted by some of the deadliest killers in the world, against all odds, Shiro feels safe with Lance.

“Thank you,” Shiro says quietly, wholeheartedly.

“Worth it,” Lance mumbles sleepily, falling into unconsciousness as fast as ever. “You’re worth the risk, Takashi.”

Shiro listens as Lance’s breathing grows slow and rhythmic as he falls asleep. Shiro concentrates on the sound of it, concentrates on Lance’s oddly soothing presence. He doesn’t remember Lance ever referring to him by his given name, and as he’s falling asleep all he can hear is Lance’s voice, calling his name, filled with desperation, or sadness, or anger, or… passion.

_Takashi…_


	4. Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/shannyte/playlist/4Ughn2Zw6Hy4vYxFL94oub?si=Hm_BjBfOSGidycRFN9PpRw) (that no one asked for) for this fic :D

_And I want you still_  
_Like I always think that I will_  
_But I’ve got no answers for you_  
~ No Answers- Amber Run

**09:22 – September 28th, 2017**

Consciousness filters slowly through Shiro's mind, slow and peaceful, like most mornings. Most _recent_ mornings. Then he jolts completely awake, all his muscles taut, alert and prepared. Instantly, Shiro jerks upright, ignoring the complaints of his lethargy heavy body. His gaze darts about the room, surveying and cataloguing his surroundings. Small room, guest room, homely. Hunk's house. Distant voices, familiar voices.

As everything comes back to Shiro, heaping masses of memories and thoughts, he bows his head and presses his palm to his forehead. It aches and for a few minutes he simply sits there, processing information and attempting to form some kind of timeline. It's difficult though, the memories remaining fractured and with much assembly required.

Shiro sighs and slowly pulls himself to his feet as the pain ebbs into something more manageable. Rifling through his duffle, Shiro habitually completes the routine of putting on his right prosthetic arm and pulls on his sweatpants.

Quickly glancing out the window to discern the time of day, Shiro pads down the hallway towards the murmur of voices. As he gets closer he can hear Hunk and Lance having a casual conversation about bacon, a funky pop song playing unobtrusively on a radio and the low sizzle of a frying pan.

Shiro pauses at the entrance. Hunk's back is to him, sitting at the head of the rectangular dining table and nodding his head to the music, with a few notebooks spread out on the table before him. Lance is standing in front of the stove cooking food, dancing with the music and singing quietly as their conversation ceases. They're both dressed casually, enjoying a lazy morning in sweatpants, Hunk in a soft looking green sweater and Lance wearing a white tank.

For a dumbfounded few moments, Shiro simply stands there, staring at Lance and watching him move with the beat of the song. It's hypnotising, his lithe body moving so easily, so effortlessly. How could he have forgotten how well Lance could dance? He remembers being envious, then he remembers a hotter feeling swirling low in his abdomen, much like it is now as his gaze gets caught on Lance's swaying hips.

"Have a seat," Lance says without even turning to see Shiro standing there, likely having heard him approach. Hunk jolts and whirls to look at Shiro, and Shiro tenses much the same, feeling caught out and far less stealthy than he once was. "There's a cup of coffee for you at the table. Breakfast is nearly ready."

At the cool tone of Lance's voice, Shiro relaxes and glances over at the table where a steaming mug sits waiting for him. Freshly made, Lance must have known he'd been awake for a while.

"Thank you," Shiro says, taking a seat beside Hunk.

"How are you feeling?" Hunk asks Shiro, his tone part concern, part scientific inquisitiveness. He pulls a small notebook filled with his messy handwriting towards himself, turning to a page titled _Reactivation – Shirogane Takashi_.

"Took a while to wake up completely, my head aching at an almost nauseating level. But it's eased a bit," Shiro answers openly, then nods his head at the notebook where Hunk is scribbling furiously. "For when we find Matt?"

Hunk hastily finishes his notes and nods an affirmation, walking over to get more Aspirin for Shiro. He takes the tablets gratefully and downs them with his coffee as Hunk takes his seat once more and flicks the loose locks of Shiro's hair. Shiro glances up to see Hunk grinning at him.

"Dude, you need a haircut. Didn't notice last night with it tied back."

"It suits him," Lance defends, a little too fast to be considered casual. Shiro scrutinises him for a moment, but his posture gives nothing away and he doesn't say anything further. When Shiro turns back Hunk's eyes are narrowed on him contemplatively.

"Hmm, I stand corrected. It's very samurai, which suits the whole, _whoosh, whoosh, whoosh_ ," Hunk's arms fly through the air in slashing motions, "deadly arm thing." Then Hunk glances at Shiro's standard civilian prosthetic. "Oh. Damn."

Shiro raises his arm before him, inspecting it and unable to stop himself comparing it to the bionic arm Matt had developed for him. He remembers how the metallic fingers would curl and flex as smoothly as his human hand, he remembers the lightweight density of the metal and how he'd used it to block innumerable blows. He remembers watching the cool metal sliding over dark skin, raising goosebumps in its wake, but watching him lean into the touch nonetheless.

Shiro blinks, the vague seconds of memory fading, and his lips suddenly dry lips.

"Can you—?"

"Oh no, nah-ah, no way!" Hunk interrupts resolutely, raising his arms and absolving himself of any responsibility. "Even though I know mechanics and even though I helped Matt design the arm, I know absolutely nothing about biology and anatomy; that's Matt's speciality. If I were to even try… I'm more likely to maim you permanently than give you back your bionic arm."

"Maiming seems counterproductive," Lance surmises jovially.

Shiro smirks and lowers his arm. "Fair enough."

Glancing down at his notebook, Hunk continues his line of questioning, "Any more memories open up to you?"

At this question Shiro notices Lance stiffen and pause where he's in the middle of dishing out bacon and eggs on toast in Shiro's peripheral vision. Shiro has a sudden and deep desire to walk over and press his palm gently between Lance's shoulder blades to help him relax, to feel those strong muscles loosen under his touch. Shiro curls his fingers tightly around the hot surface of his mug to stop himself, tearing his gaze away from Lance and staring into his coffee, concentrating on Hunk's question.

"To a degree. I remember most of my missions now and my memories of people in my life are becoming more comprehensive. Katie, Allura, Lotor, you… Matt," he answers, swallowing hard before speaking his best friend's name.

"Lance?" Hunk prompts, his dark eyes full of personal interest now.

A plate gets roughly set down by Hunk's elbow, making him jump a little and glance up at an infuriated looking Lance, his jaw clenched tight and eyebrows drawn down in a sharp, contentious V. They exchange looks in a silent conversation Shiro doesn't understand.

"Just some more of the training sessions I did with him," Shiro speaks hesitantly.

His words seem to break Hunk and Lance of their glaring contest, Lance sets his and Shiro's plates down more gently and sits down without a word. Hunk looks repentant and miserable, his immense shoulders drooping as he slowly adds a few notes. Watching them twists a knife in Shiro's chest, between Lance's avoidance and tension and Hunk's deep sadness Shiro just wants to give them both a hug. But he doesn't understand what's happening.

 _I need to know, I need to ask,_ Shiro thinks, curiosity prevailing. He can't hold it back any longer.

"What's happening?" he questions firmly, glancing back and forth between them before his gaze focuses on Lance. "You tensed up when Hunk asked me about my memories, why? Are there things you don't want me to remember?"

Lance smiles humourlessly. "That famous Shirogane perception coming back, I see."

"If you think I've been missing the way you've been acting around me, Lance, you're not as intelligent as I thought. Or, perhaps, you're just blindly hoping I don’t notice. Answer my question."

"Which one would that be? You asked three."

"Is there something you don’t want me to remember?" Shiro demands in a low growl, remembering how maddeningly evasive Lance can be.

"No," Lance says, shrugging innocuously and not selling it anywhere near as well as he usually does. Something seems off about him.

"I thought you were a better liar than that."

After being so elusive, when Lance finally meets Shiro's gaze the potency of his bright blue eyes leaves him a little dazed. But Shiro sees it, the conflicted, heartbroken suffering Lance is burying down deep. The knife lodged in Shiro's chest twists painfully.

"There's nothing to lie about. Your detector is clearly out of whack with the Reactivation," Lance responds truthfully. It's confusing and makes Shiro frown, mind stuttering in its analysis, suddenly not so confident in himself. "The faster you can remember everything the better equipped we'll be to deal with the Altea Agency and whatever fucking reason they had for framing you and then trying to have you killed."

Shiro stares at Lance, not knowing what to say, and Lance stares back, holding his gaze unfalteringly. Lance has always done this to him, leaving him questioning himself and his own ability. Lance is undoubtedly a master of deception but, as a master of perception, Shiro's never faced anyone who could outmanoeuvre him. Lance is his blind spot. An irritatingly attractive and cunning blind spot.

Hunk, who had been glancing anxiously between them like he was watching an intense tennis match, clears his throat. "What about Matt?"

"What about him?" Lance asks, picking up his fork, bringing his attention to his breakfast and the new topic smoothly.

"I mean, if we can find him then we can prove to Altea that Shiro didn't get him killed."

Lance shakes his head, chewing on a piece of bacon. "Proving it to Altea won't change anything. They clearly want him dead for something else, something recent, something… more. Otherwise, they would have had him disposed of in the first place instead of Deactivating him."

"Right," Hunk says slowly, his thick eyebrows deeply furrowed. "So… Why are they trying to kill him?"

"That's the key question."

"Shiro, do you remember anything that happened that could lead them to do this?"

Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, Shiro deliberates for a moment, hitting all those infuriatingly cloudy areas of his memory and bouncing off them like a pinball machine. "One time, when we were fresh recruits, Matt and I… _obtained_ an experimental and advanced welding gun and sealed all the commanders private quarters shut. They never discovered it was us though."

Quiet falls over the table as Lance stares at him with a rapidly broadening grin and then Hunk bursts into raucous laughter. Lance, simply ducking his head to hide his dimpling smile, doesn't laugh and Shiro immediately misses it; recalling the beautiful chiming sound of it, with that hint of hysteria and those small, rare snorts.

Through his heavy laughter Hunk somehow manages to get out questions about the logistics of the venture and Shiro is more than happy to oblige. He feels lighter than he has for days, possibly even years, as the conversation flows back and forth from the humorous to the strategical aspects of his and Matt's exploits as recruits.

With their breakfast finished and dishes put away in the dishwasher, Hunk's partway through arguing that the new security systems couldn't be hacked before security response team would arrive – "I would know, I helped design the system" – when a low, repetitive alarm sound comes from his watch. Shiro and Lance instantly rise to their feet, ready for anything.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit," Hunk chants with a hint of panic in his voice and running from the room.

If Hunk is swearing, it's a bad sign.

Shiro and Lance follow Hunk quickly into the living room, which is entirely infested with computer hardware, broken parts and whole systems. Hunk's sitting before a wide display of monitors, turning off the alarm sound and clicking through some screens.

"They're back," Hunk murmurs under his breath.

Footage of a suburban street comes up, a nearby street, Shiro notes as he glances at another screen of a moving map. There are lots of cars but in the focus of all these changing camera angles – probably CCTV footage – is a car Shiro recognises. He squints because he knows he knows the red car, but cannot for the life of him remember who it belongs to. He's saved from struggling against a hazy barrier in his mind when Lance speaks.

"Keith. What the fuck is he coming here for?" Lance says, more to himself than anything. "Idiot's not smart enough to think we'd come here."

"Pidge probably sent him," Hunk says quietly. Tilting his head, he scrutinises the map and says, decisively, "Okay, we need to hide you and all evidence of you. Like, _right_ now. We have less than three minutes."

Lance is out of the room before Hunk even finishes talking and Shiro follows, a few steps behind, still frustratingly not at his best after the Reactivation. When Shiro catches up to Lance in the spare bedroom they slept in, Lance has already made the bed and is trying to stuff Shiro's still made-up single mattress in the top of the wardrobe. Shiro lends a hand and they get it up there and then hide their bags in the wardrobe underneath a mass of spare computer parts.

"Lance!" Hunk calls out in warning.

Lance gives one last glance around the room and nods, then hurries back out to the living room. Shiro's heart is pounding, hard but steady, pumping adrenaline through his veins, fear of getting caught fuelling him and pushing him forward.

He barely remembers Keith, but from what little he knows Keith works for Altea. And, considering Lance and Hunk's reactions, he's still an active Agent and a threat. Shiro trusts Lance's judgement, so he follows suit without question.

"Hunk, where do we—?"

Lance's question is cut short as Hunk scurries away from his desk, tripping on a pile of computer hardware but righting himself before he falls, and stops before a computer grid in the wall. He pushes his thumb to a pad hidden on the side and, after a moment, there's a sound of a seal popping open and the front of the grid moves. Hunk pulls open what Shiro now sees is not actually a grid of computers like the rest of the wall, but a tiny room. A panic room.

"Are you kidding me? Hunk, that looks like it only fits one person!" Lance grates out between his teeth.

"It does, but we don't have any choice," Hunk hisses frantically, his eyes bulging as he glances back at his computer screens and the map showing Keith's car just down the street. "Lance, it's this or fighting Keith. You choose."

Lance growls but stubbornly doesn't move, his hands curled into fists and his entire form rigid with discomfort.

The other thing Shiro remembers about Keith is that he's an extremely skilled fighter, one of Altea's best. Shiro is still recovering from Reactivation and they're completely unprepared for combat, this is neither the time nor the place for a fight that doesn't favour them. More than that, Shiro feels a friendly warmth at the thought of Keith, the same warmth he feels at the thought of Matt or Pidge, and doesn't wish to fight a friend. Even if he can't remember said friend.

Making his decision, Shiro reaches for Lance's wrist to drag him forward and, to his surprise, Lance doesn't resist, he just mutters darkly and follows. Shiro pushes Lance into the space and carefully manoeuvrers himself inside.

"It's not completely soundproof so keep your voices down and there is oxygen pumped in regularly so you don't have to worry about that," Hunk explains hurriedly. "I'll open the door when he's gone but if I don't open it in a few hours there's a panel on the back of the door to open and it's set to recognise Lance's fingerprint. I'll be as quick as possible."

"No, do _not_ rush Keith, he'll get suspicious. Just act as you usually do when he visits," Lance instructs. "Remember, you don't have to lie, just work your way around the truth like I taught you. You can do this, I know you can. And if you can't, you'll probably get me and Shiro killed," he finishes flippantly.

Shiro suppresses a sigh as Hunk's eyes widen in terror. But he nods determinedly and closes the door with a sealing thump and a metallic locking sound. Suddenly everything is extremely quiet and Shiro can only hear the soft panting of his own breath and the powerful beats of his heart. Dim lights glow around their feet and it's only at this moment that Shiro realises just how confined the space is and how close he and Lance are.

Turning his head from the closed door, Shiro meets Lance's panicked gaze, the tips of their noses barely an inch apart. Their legs are a confusing tangle, knees pressed together, thighs touching, and the cloth of their shirts brushing with every deep inhale. With his back pressed against the wall and Lance's arms bracketing him, in an attempt to keep himself upright, Shiro feels his heart rate double time it.

Lance squeezes his eyes shut, his arms dropping from around Shiro and, for the first time in Shiro's accessible memory, he doesn't make some sort of joke out of the situation. This, more than their awkward positioning, makes Shiro uncomfortable.

He thought they'd gotten past all this secrecy and dishonesty. He thought they'd gotten to a place of trust in each other, confiding in each other and relying on each other. He thought they'd started being real with each other, that Lance no longer hid his true self from Shiro. At least, that's what he remembers. What changed?

"What did I do?" Shiro asks, quiet and resigned.

Lance's eyes open quickly, the blue of his irises dark and deep in the low light. "What do you mean?" he whispers, frowning.

"I must have done something I can't remember for you to be treating me like this. Treating me like…" Shiro clenches his jaw. "Like you can't trust me. Like you refuse to."

"You think I'd be in this fucking situation if I didn't trust you?" Lance snaps angrily in a low hiss.

 _No, he wouldn't have risked his life for me if he didn't trust me_ , Shiro agrees.

"Then why? You're completely different around me… than what I remember, at least."

Lance swallows hard, and Shiro's so close he can hear the click of it in his throat, watches the slow bob of his Adam's apple in his long, elegant neck. "That's because you don't remember enough yet," Lance admits, his voice sad and broken.

This is the most honest admission Lance has made since Reactivating him, and it aches through Shiro's chest. He needs to know. How did he lose Lance's closeness? How did he lose this brilliant light in his life?

"Please tell me," Shiro borderline begs.

Lance's eyes close and he sighs heavily, his expression crinkled and pained. "I can't."

Hysteria breaks through Shiro’s carefully maintained façade of control and he presses forward fiercely, grabbing Lance's wrist. He's sick of these fucking blocks in his mind and tired of Lance dodging him, keeping things from him. He can’t take it anymore.

"Please, Lance. You _have_ to tell me what happened. There's all this darkness in my head, it stings but I _need_ to know. It's all so far out of my reach, you're so far out of my reach, and I can't keep walking around blindly thinking I've done something to lose your trust or hurt you in—"

Gaping at him with wide, horrified eyes, Lance clamps a hand firmly over Shiro's mouth to stop him from talking. His troubled blue gaze searches Shiro's face for a long silent moment, his hot breath warming Shiro's nose and cheeks. Then Lance tenses and Shiro feels it, all over him, every muscle taut where their bodies are now pressed tightly together, and then he realises why.

Pressed against his thigh, hot and hard and unmistakable. He notices Lance's panting and that his eyes aren't dark because of the lighting but because of his exceedingly apparent arousal blowing his pupils wide. Shiro's bodily reaction is visceral and utterly uncontrollable, feeling himself harden, throbbing responsively as all the muscles in his abdomen tighten against the sudden rush of desire.

No stranger to the attraction he's always felt for Lance, Shiro pushes his hips forward instinctively.

"Don't," Lance warns weakly. Shiro stops, watching carefully as conflicting emotions chase each other over Lance's face. "We _can't_."

"Why?" Shiro asks, though, with Lance's hand over his mouth – which is a far more thrilling experience than he thought it could be – it only comes out as a mumbled grunt. Somehow, Lance manages to understand him anyway.

Lance huffs an amused laugh and ducks his head. "For one thing, you're brother and my best friend are less than twenty yards away."

 _Brother?_ Shiro wants to ask but doesn't think that's an explanation he wants to have under the circumstances.

"And for another… I…"

As Lance's voice trails off he meets Shiro's gaze, their noses touching with their closeness, and Shiro can see his own yearning reflected back at him from within Lance's eyes. Lance wants him, Shiro can see it, feel it. The thought makes him giddy with exhilaration, his breath growing short, puffing against Lance's hand, and as much as Shiro likes it there, he wishes he could kiss him.

Lance isn't moving, isn't speaking. Even if Shiro can see it in his eyes and tell from his physical reaction that Lance wants this, wants him, he refuses to push Lance. He refuses to do anything without affirmation.

Shiro goes to move away, possibly turn around or move to the back of the compartment to give them some space each, when Lance stops him. His free hand curling around Shiro's hip, Lance pulls him in, and the slight friction it causes breathing life to a now raging fire low in his stomach.

"Just—" Lance practically groans, too loud. "Please, Ta—Shiro."

Lance grabs Shiro's arm and settles the palm of it over his own mouth so that they're both now quietened. Lance rocks his hips invitingly into Shiro's as he gazes at him with pleading blue eyes. And that's all Shiro needs, all he'd been waiting for.

Pinning Lance against the wall with his hips, Shiro shifts, pushing his knee between Lance's thighs and, in the process, having Lance's thigh pressed against the length of his aching hardness. Exhaling a contented breath and groaning softly at the heated pleasure it stirs, Shiro starts to grind shamelessly against the long, lean line of Lance's body.

His movements begin unhurried and deliberate as he carefully watches Lance in case he changes his mind, to make sure he's okay, to make sure he wants this. Lance's eyes are closed – a disappointment for Shiro, but whatever makes him comfortable – and his expression is pinched, caught in an odd combination of bliss, relief and anguish that confuses Shiro immensely. Lance isn't telling him to stop though, he’s rolling his hips in perfect synchronisation with Shiro, as if not caring about his own inner turmoil. Simply wanting. Craving.

Having not done this in a while, that wonderful coiling pressure intensifies quickly, and Shiro speeds up his movements instinctively, chasing the pleasure. Not that Shiro hasn't had sexual partners over his Deactivated years; he had many casual encounters but never found anyone he wanted to stay with. And none of that sex felt anything like this, overwhelming and alleviating all at once.

Lance's jaw falls open as he whimpers against Shiro's fingers, the sound reverberating against his skin and heating a path down his spine. Lance's hand curves around Shiro's hip and his long, skilful fingers squeeze enthusiastically at his arse, encouraging his hastened movements. Shiro groans, low and needy in the back of his throat, thrusting harder.

He's unsure how long they remain like this, panting and groaning and enjoying the feel of each other's body. No matter how much time passes it's not enough. Shiro resists the mounting, undeniable desire for release as long as he can, instead focusing on how Lance feels underneath him and how his hand tastes against his parted lips and the rich, warm scent of him.

This is apparently the wrong thing to focus on as it surprisingly pushes him over the edge, barely biting back his own cry of pleasure as his body curls in on itself and shudders.

Shiro's legs tremble – glad he's in the enclosed space and leaning against Lance – as he regains control of himself. Suddenly Lance pushes Shiro back urgently, grinding against his leg and seeking release. Shiro lets it happen, simply nuzzling at Lance's hair encouragingly where his head has fallen into the crook of Shiro's neck.

Feeling Lance's muscles flex and tighten as he comes is, oddly, almost as satisfying as his own release and Shiro finds himself wishing he could see Lance's face, watch his expression, listen to the unrestrained sounds he's clearly working hard to swallow down. And it's in that moment Shiro realises they've done this before, this and more, so much more. He doesn't remember, but he feels it in his body, feels it in the innate way his body reacts to Lance's.

"Fuck," Lance mumbles against Shiro's hand, slumped against him as his strength returns. In the single word, Shiro hears the regret. All the happiness and hope twining its way around his heart at the thought of being with Lance dies instantly.

Shiro's hand loosens from Lance's mouth and he takes a step back, untangling himself. They stand there for a moment, bodies as separate as they can be in the limited space, avoiding looking at each other and falling into uncomfortable silence.

"I'm sorry," Lance murmurs.

Shiro draws the only conclusion he can from the tension in Lance's body, the shame averting his gaze and the pain in his voice.

"I hurt you."

Lance's cool blue gaze flickers up to meet Shiro's and he watches it happen, watches Lance's mask slip into place. Expression cautiously arranged and every word carefully calculated, Lance does what he does best.

"You didn't hurt me."

Lie.

Shiro feels it like a physical blow, straight to the solar plexus, knocking the breath from him and spreading a searing pain through his nervous system. The thought of having done something to hurt Lance is agonising and suddenly he's terrified of remembering, doesn't want to if it will lead to remembering that.

The silence that follows rings in Shiro's ears. He can't move, can't speak, just stands there staring at Lance.

Suddenly the security pad of the panic room makes an approving sound and the door slides open with a metallic scraping.

"Oh my God, that was the—What the—?"

Lance interrupts whatever Hunk had been saying by shoving his way out of the cramped panic room, jostling Shiro as he goes. He presses his forefinger to his lips in a hushing gesture and then taps his ear and waves his arm around the room.

Hunk rolls his eyes. "There are no bugs, dumbass. You think I'd allow any in my house? Seriously, Lance, you think I'm that—"

Frowning, Hunk's eyes roam over Lance and come to a halt on his crotch, where there is a visible and incriminating wet patch, his eyes widening comically large. He glances between Lance and Shiro, an excited smile starting to curl at his mouth.

"Did you—?"

"No," Lance growls, his voice full of warning and emotion sinks back into his expression as he faces Hunk. "We're _not_ going to talk about this, this _never_ happened."

As Hunk's face falls, delight – tinged with a little, understandable discomfort at finding them in this state – fades into a heartbroken pout. Shiro can't help but agree with Lance. For Hunk to be so joyful about the prospect of Shiro and Lance being together – again – can only mean they'd been happy together in the past, and Shiro had done something horrible to break it, to the point Lance doesn't even want to discuss it.

Shiro won't ask, he won't pry. It's already too much that Lance is here, that Lance saved him at the risk of his own life.

"Now, I'm going to shower," Lance says, his voice quieter with embarrassment and cheeks darkening slightly. "Then we'll talk about Keith."

As Lance stalks off Shiro edges his way out of the panic room, slow and hesitant. Ashamed.

"Sorry, he—you—"

Realising there isn't anything he can say without betraying his best friend’s trust, Hunk simply sighs and scratches at the back of his head anxiously.

"It's okay, Hunk," Shiro says, even if it isn't really. Because Hunk is too kind and Shiro certainly doesn't deserve whatever consoling words Hunk can't say.

"There's another shower in my en-suite, you can use it first," Hunk assures, trying and failing not to glance at the wet patch at Shiro's crotch and grimacing.

Shiro simply nods, not having the energy to graciously refuse. He trudges off down the hallway, collects his duffle and heads into Hunk's en-suite. Mechanically, Shiro undresses, removes his prosthetic and steps under the scorching hot spray of water. He doesn't adjust it, just stands there for an agonising moment, replaying the anguish in Lance's expression and the regret in his voice.

For Lance, he'll forget it happened, no matter how wonderful and heady it felt to be with Lance so intimately. For Lance, he'd give anything. His happiness, his hope, his memories. His life.

 

* * *

 

**10:40 – September 28th, 2017**

After a speedy shower, not wanting to use up Hunk's hot water before he gets a chance, Shiro sits quietly in the living room, staring at the impressive display of monitors on the wall and waiting patiently for Lance and Hunk. When they enter eleven minutes and forty-six seconds later, Lance is clean and dressed in his usual blue jeans and white t-shirt but Hunk's wearing comfortable track pants and an orange long-sleeved t-shirt. Lance's wearing shoes while Hunk's only wearing socks. Planning to go somewhere without Hunk?

They're discussing something technical Shiro can't be bothered trying to follow. He's mildly surprised to hear Lance be a part of such a conversation. Not to say he doubts Lance's intelligence, he's always known Lance could achieve almost anything he set his mind to, but he's never showed interest in such things. As far as Shiro remembers.

"So, obviously, you managed to talk the mullet away," Lance says, casually slumping down on the sofa, as far away from Shiro as possible. "Did he seem suspicious?"

"I don't think so," Hunk answers uncertainly, sitting in his swivel chair and turning to face them. "He made it seem like a casual visit, though he wasn't very good at covering the fact that he was searching around the house for some sign of you."

Lance snorts. "As subtle as a sledgehammer that one."

"You said… brother?" Shiro questions hesitantly. "My brother?"

"You don't remember that Keith's your brother?" Hunk's brow is furrowed with a pitying look.

"Not biologically," Lance counters, defensive and automatic as if this is an argument he'd used frequently. Then he colours, jaw tightening. "I mean, your parents adopted Keith, he's been your brother since you were thirteen. You're really close, you love him and never thought of him as anything other than a real brother."

Lance speaks with quiet reverence and fiddles with a loose thread from the hole in the knee of his jeans; the words sounding as if repeated, likely the explanation Shiro had given him.

"Then why can't I remember him?"

"Oh I wouldn't worry about that," Hunk reassures, twirling on his chair and clicking through some screens. "It's must be visual based prompting for the Reactivation. Like when you saw me and Lance."

"I remembered Lance before the Reactivation," Shiro recalls, speaking the words aloud without really meaning to.

Hunk's clicking comes to an abrupt halt and he slowly swivels back around to face him, eyes wide with disbelief. "That's not possible…"

"It's what happened," Lance affirms with a sigh.

Hunk's eyes bug-out somehow even wider. "Why the heck didn't you tell me this, Lance?! Do you have any idea the—" He cuts himself off at the power of Lance's glower. "Fine, fine! You know what—fine! Anyway, this might help."

A picture of a dark-haired young man comes appears on one of the screens, a candid shot of him scowling at someone out of frame. Shiro walks over to the screen, squinting at the image and willing himself to remember someone that sounds so incredibly important to him. Shiro mentally traces the lines of a sharp jaw, soft features and dark eyes… but there's nothing. Nothing but ice-cold guilt sinking slowly into his gut.

A gentle hand settles between his shoulder blades and Shiro doesn't have to glance over to know it's Lance's, his body knowing the touch better than his mind and immediately relaxing under the soothing feel of it. Hunk's eyes are narrowed on him with that scientific curiosity Shiro knows all well from Matt.

"Perhaps the trigger requires a physical form of visual reference," he muses, noting it down in his notebook. "Which will be difficult considering Keith still wants to kill you."

Shiro flinches at the offhanded comment and his candour.

Lance heaves an exasperated sigh. "Holy mother of fuck, Hunk, seriously? Do you ever think before you speak?"

"Why does he want me dead?"

"He believes you killed Matt."

"Hunk!" Lance hisses in admonishment.

"What? It's true!"

"Yeah, well, only because he's a fucking senseless dumbass and doesn't know how to listen. Honestly, how many times do I have to tell him that I was with Shiro in a completely different country when they're claiming Matt ‘died' before he understands common fucking sense."

"You see why he'd think you were covering for Shiro though… Put yourself in his shoes."

Lance tenses. "I'm basically there right now…"

Shiro barely understands half of what they're saying, the words and ideas ramming into barriers in his fractured memory. There's only one fact that makes sense, but also no freaking sense, to him.

"My brother wants me dead…"

"Shiro," Lance says, and the tenderness in his voice draws Shiro in, turning his head to meet his gaze. Lance's hand is still on his back, subconsciously rubbing soothing circles against his sweater. "Keith's been emotionally blackmailed by Altea, he doesn't know what to think and his instinct is always to lash out. We just have to get him to stop long enough to consider an alternative. AKA, the truth."

Shiro nods once, trusting wholeheartedly in Lance.

"And how, exactly, do you plan on doing that?" Hunk questions, his eyebrow cocked in a way Shiro's sure he learned from Lance.

"We find and rescue Matthew Holt."

Silence lingers in the wake of Lance's determined declaration. Shiro doesn't particularly know what to say, he doesn't know how much Lance has actually uncovered in his absence; for all Shiro knows Lance has already tracked Matt down. But Hunk is eyeing him dubiously, and considering he seems to be in on Lance's research, perhaps Lance's determination is overly optimistic.

"I repeat: and how, exactly, do you plan on doing that?"

Lance rolls his eyes and saunters over to Hunk's computer setup, fingers flying over keys and clicking through screens with surprising alacrity. Databases of information pop up on the screen; maps, written reports, and documents from government agencies only someone of Hunk or Pidge's skill level could access.

"I've been teaching him in his downtime between missions," Hunk says, clearly seeing the awe on Shiro's face. "Most of the hacking I did for him, though."

"Hey, I'm getting there!" Lance complains.

"Yeah, buddy, you're doing real good," Hunk placates, turning to Shiro to shake his head with a smirk.

"I saw that."

Shiro chuckles at them and tries his hardest to follow what Lance's doing. Thankfully, Lance promptly finishes his searching and brings up a couple of key screens. On one is a relatively short list of what seems to be serial numbers, the other is a map with a flag indicating an old warehouse building, and the last is a page of memos dated three days prior.

Hunk's eyebrows actually raise, impressed, as he scrutinises the information before him. "This is… How did you…?"

"I'm amazing, that's how. Also nosy AF," Lance says, grinning brightly. Then he glances at a clearly perplexed Shiro. "Okay, so, it took me a while to draw the conclusion that the best place for Altea to hide someone is in the slave trade. Then I started digging through Altea's dealings with slave traders, through all the mission files, and discovered that despite the fact that Altea is supposedly constantly ‘dealing with’ the slave trade, they don't actually seem to be getting anywhere with it in the last ten or so years.

"So, through some contacts and my general wiliness, I started snooping around the few slave traders who had supposedly evaded them. They’re doing wonderfully, one out of Brazil and the other in Thailand, and their grasps extend fairly seamlessly through much of the western world, though they mostly avoid it."

"Altea has been associating with slave traders," Shiro surmises flatly, absolutely disbelieving as he crosses his arms over his chest defensively. "There's no way they can hide that from us. Matt, Pidge, Hunk, they'd all find it through the servers. Or on those evaded missions, they always have a tech expert allocated to slave trading."

Hunk's shaking his head. "The data wasn't on our servers, all the debriefing statements and reports were squeaky clean."

"I found this information in the slave trader’s private servers. Think about it, an Agent is on a recovery mission, finds the data via his tech’s expertise, returns with the data and takes it straight to the higher-ups for debrief. If the Agent finds something Altea doesn't want them to it wouldn't be that hard for them to dispose of said Agent."

Shiro clenches his jaw firmly, automatically opposed to the negative image Lance is drawing of the company Shiro's worked for since he was eighteen, invited straight out of army recruitment training. But this is Lance, and Lance knows more about the dark underbelly of crime than Shiro does. So he listens, taking it all with a grain of salt.

"The Brazilian based trader, codename Janka, is the one who has some webs spread into the US. He has three facilities and one of them is right here, right under our noses," Lance says, pointing to the screen of the map, no more than twenty miles east of their current location. "Unfortunately they move Matt around a lot so initially it was really difficult to get a tap on him. That is until Hunk decoded the serial numbers two months ago. And two days ago I got my first hit on the program I had scanning Janka's databases."

Shiro considers all of this information carefully, reading through the serial numbers and the memo. It's all consistent and Shiro trusts Hunk's technical expertise without a single doubt, but there's the question of ‘why’ still niggling at the back of his mind. It makes no sense for Altea to suddenly be involved in all of this shady business. Even if it is being carefully covered up then who's actually involved, who's to blame?

"Any footage or proof that it's Matt?" Shiro asks.

Lance winces. "No, not precisely. I was about to go do some recon when I was called into Altea for the contract on you."

"Either way this is good intel and we need to burn out that spiders nest. Search, recover and destroy, if necessary."

Lance's eyes glint at Shiro's commanding words and his lips pull into a brilliant grin. "Roger that, boss man."

"Woah, woah, woah," Hunk interrupts, throwing his arms up in the air with each repetition. "Aren't you guys forgetting one tiny, brilliant, technical genius, bordering on wizard levels of ridiculousness?"

Shiro frowns in confusion and Lance slumps in defeat.

"Pidge! If Keith's here then Pidge is back in town and that means if you so much as step foot outside this house she'll track you down!"

After a few calculating moments of silence, Lance suddenly perks up, his grin a little manic this time.

"No, oh no, no, no!" Hunk complains before Lance can even open his mouth to explain whatever idea he's had. "Whatever it is, I know that look, and _no!_ Uh-uh, bad idea!"

"Shut up, Hunk. My ideas are awesome, thank you very much!"

Hunk groans loudly and buries his face in his hands, but Shiro nods to Lance. "Let's at least hear him out."

"Bad idea… very bad idea…" Hunk murmurs into his hands, shaking his head, but Lance ignores him.

"We draw them out, Pidge and Keith. They'll seek you outside of Altea resources, not wanting professional interference, and then we'll have a nice little chat."

Hunk groans louder.

Shiro actually considers this. Because while Hunk, in all of his natural pessimism, is somewhat right to be fearful, he doesn't know how good Lance is at talking. He may theoretically know what Lance is capable of but he's never been in the field, never seen Lance at work. It's truly something remarkable to behold. Lance can talk himself out of anything, or in this case, talk someone else out of anything.

"What do you have in mind? I want details," Shiro says.

This time Lance's smile is beautiful and bright, full of pride and appreciation.


	5. Hurricane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Violence, slight non-con (if concerned, for spoiler-filled info go to bottom notes).

_The world is spinning like a weather vane_  
_Fragile and composed_  
_Though I am breaking down again_  
_I am aching now to let you in_  
~ Hurriane - Fleurie

**21:57 – June 20th, 2012**

Shiro explains the plan for the fourth time, going over it in excessive detail and ignoring Lance's incessant eye rolls and interruptions about knowing ‘all of this already'. It's important he _more_ than knows it, it's important that he lives and breathes this plan because it's his first mission and quite a dangerous one at that. One that Shiro feels is too soon, too risky, and too personal.

As Lance's mentor, Allura brought the mission to Shiro first, and Shiro had been incredible uncertain about it, to the point of practically saying ‘no.' Shiro believes Lance's previous connection to the target is a weakness rather than a ‘way in,' as Allura sees it. ‘No' is not for him to decide though; Allura and Lotor make the decisions about missions, and their decision is final. Naturally, Allura ignored his protests and brought the mission to Lance. Despite his reluctance, Shiro went about organising the mission to make it safe and successful.

The target: Branko, Boris. A reasonably low-level drug trafficker in the city, who has recently been dabbling in human trafficking. Someone Altea can no longer deem as marginally harmless. Lance's ‘way in' is that he knows Branko, he used to work for Branko. But the way Lance reacted to the name, the slight tension in his shoulders and the wariness in his eyes told Shiro there was more to it that. Lance is afraid of Branko.

Lance denied it of course. And Allura believed him.

So here they are. In a concealed surveillance van parked in an alley, a block up from the noisy, slimy, low-life filled nightclub, _Get Forked_. About to send Lance strolling into a snake pit on his own.

Everything about this has Shiro's hackles raised. It makes him uncomfortable and itchy, with that sickening concern perpetually tumbling in his stomach. Part of him wants to tie Lance up and go in his stead. But Shiro won't be accepted in, too well-known, and too much risk of casualties when things are sure to go south.

"Shiro, I got it, okay!" Lance snaps with irritation. He's twitchy. "I got this. It'll be a walk in the park. This fucker won't know what hit him."

He'd be able to fool anyone else, and it's truly a gallant effort to try and fool Shiro, but there is too much spite in his voice. He hates Branko. A mistake with dire consequences. Personal emotion must be removed from the equation of any mission.

Eying Lance, Shiro's seriously considering pulling the plug on this mission. He may have seen Lance's master manipulation abilities at work, but only ever in safe environments, environments Lance wanted to be in. Lance had been in control there, but in this club, in Branko's domain, on Branko's terms, the only one with any power is Branko.

Shiro swallows, his hand curled into a fist. It's not his decision; there's nothing he can do.

"Fine, go," he says, nodding his head at the sliding door out of the van, and determinedly not watching Lance as he leaves. Though Shiro can hear the moment Lance hesitates, the wet sound of his mouth opening as if he's about to speak, then silence, but the van door doesn't slide closed.

Shiro glances over to see Lance grinning at him, dimpling his cheeks and tilting his head. Lance gives him a two-finger salute and sarcastically says, "I'll be fine; I've got you here to protect me after all."

Lance immediately disappears behind the sliding van door, and Shiro stands there staring at it for a long while. Sarcasm feigned in a juvenile attempt to cover true feelings of comfort, of the safety Shiro's presence provides. Only a small glimpse but it's the first real show of confidence Lance has given, and Shiro thinks, maybe he can actually do this.

"Shiro, you've been training him for more than five months, he can't be _that_ bad," Pidge attempts to soothe him, in her own way.

 _You're right, he's actually one of the best Agents I've ever trained,_ Shiro thinks, but he can't say that because it would leave him without a reason for all of his over-preparation. Without a reason he can disclose, that is. Hell, he even requisitioned Pidge for the mission because she's the best Tech Altea has.

"Keep an eye on him. Have you managed to get into the Fork's network?" Shiro questions.

His gaze flickers across the displays of numerous monitors. One shows a wobbly view of a street from the tiny camera on Lance. Another shows CCTV footage of Triumph Street, giving them a visual of Lance sauntering towards _Get Forked_. Wearing skin-tight black jeans and a practically painted on collared blue shirt, Lance looks like Slender Man in the footage, but Shiro knows up close he looks almost edible, all long limbs and lean muscle. It's been a mighty effort of self-control to stop himself from touching Lance.

"No luck," Pidge responds, drawing Shiro's attention away from watching Lance's ass from one of the CCTV's better angles. "They've carefully restricted their network to local hardware servers and kept it free of wireless transmission. The usual, really. Once Lance gets close enough and can plant the bug I'll be all access. The best I can do at this point is some dark, blurry footage from phone cams inside."

To demonstrate, Pidge brings up a couple of windows of girls taking photos of themselves and dark movement inside pockets and the club's ceiling of flashing lights. Shiro winces and goes back to watching Lance approach _Get Forked_.

"Exactly. Let's see if your boy can get in," Pidge says, watching Lance's shirt-cam with curiosity.

 _My boy?_ Shiro thinks, shifting his stance and crossing his arms over his chest.

There are only two burly bouncers out the front of the club, scrutinising the few people walking down the street with a lack of the usual boredom bouncers tend to exude. Private security likely paid a gratuitous amount of dirty money. The smaller of the two eyes Lance, head to toe, as he comes to a halt before them.

"Here to see Branko," Lance states casually.

The bouncers tense and narrow their eyes at him. Shiro can't see Lance's face but can imagine the carefree smirk curving his face considering their taut, churlish expressions. They don't respond, don't move, merely standing there silently attempting to intimidate Lance. Which is laughable.

"Names Lance, and if Branko finds out you left his gift out in the cold…" the camera jostles as Lance shrugs.

Shiro frowns, and his stomach churns at the insinuation of Lance's words. _Gift? Is he talking about himself? This isn't part of the plan. This isn't even in the ballpark of the plan._ Shiro's hands curl into tight fists against his ribcage, and he opens his mouth to say something when the bouncers shift. They glance at each other for a considering moment before the smaller one disappears into the nightclub; the pounding beat warbling through the speakers audible for a moment before being muted once more as the door closes behind the bouncer.

There are a few minutes of waiting that Lance fills with pointless babbling questions the bouncer doesn't respond to. A few other people arrive, bypassing Lance with appreciative ogling before disappearing inside too.

The smaller bouncer returns and gives Lance an affirmative nod. "Go inside, someone will find you."

"Thanks, dude!"

Lance pats the bouncer on the arm good-naturedly on his way inside, likely grinning broad and victorious. He ambles into the club confidently, the loud pounding music instantly distorting Lance's microphone, even in the entryway. Pidge taps away at her keyboard before the sound clears enough that they can hear Lance's voice clearly as he greets a few random people and the music becomes a quiet backing track.

Lance is naturally charismatic, so they all respond positively; some returning his smile and giving him a friendly greeting and some openly leering, almost looking as if they want to take him and fuck him right there.

"Wow, not exactly subtle are they," Pidge comments, amusement lighting her voice. She laughs and points at the screen. "Look at that guy, looks like he's on the verge of whipping his dick out."

"This isn't the place for subtly," Shiro responds vaguely as his attention is fixedly focussed on the vision of Lance's shirt-cam and he mentally maps the layout of the room.

"S'pose it _is_ called ‘Get Forked.'"

Lance makes his way through the crowds, the camera bouncing slightly with the beat, and over to the bar. It takes a little while to get the bartender's attention – a tall, imposing woman with a heavy brow – but eventually he gets a drink in hand. Two drinks, the first whisky he downs at once and the second he sips.

"He's planted it," Pidge says suddenly, a hint of surprise in her voice as she starts hacking into the system. Even with the considerable attention on Lance, no one noticed. "There must have been wiring on the underside of the bar-top or… something…"

It doesn't surprise Shiro, he trained Lance himself and knows the full extent of his cunning ways. But in all his careful surveillance of the area, Shiro didn't notice the wiring, nor did he see Lance plant Pidge's hacking device. Which can only mean Lance has been here before, which surprises Shiro even less but makes him even more uncomfortable about this mission.

Lance starts a flirtatious conversation with a petite redheaded woman, who is smoothing her fingers over his chest when a broad simple-suited man with an earpiece approaches.

"He'll see you now," the thick guard grunts at Lance.

At the words it's like the woman no longer exists, Lance follows hurriedly after the guard without a word or a backwards glance. No doubt Lance selling his eagerness as naivety, excited to be Branko's gift. Some people give him pitying glances as he passes, likely having heard about Branko's brutality, as Shiro has, and possibly even suffering some of it themselves. Lance passes through two more sets of doors with even more guards who don't even acknowledge his existence.

Lance smiles, brilliant and innocent, speaks carelessly, flirtatiously, and his barely-there clothes provocative, vulnerable. All they see of him is a harmless, tasty little piece of ass for Branko.

"I'm in," Pidge reports.

New footage pops up across some of the screens, vision from the club's cameras, and they watch Lance travel through some dimly lit backrooms. Pidge closes the ones with copulating couples within and focuses on Lance's route.

"Hold," Shiro orders, watching and waiting for Lance's signal.

Lance finally enters a dimly lit room that is lavishly decorated in dark silks and rich velvets. There is a luxurious sofa against the back wall, a veritable throne, and in the middle of it is the hulking form of Branko. The man is relaxed back against the cushions, his jaw impossibly strong and the metal plate over his right cheekbone and forehead shining in the light. His mouth is pulled into a broad grin as he spots Lance.

Shiro feels a familiar mixture of anticipation and anxiety at the now visible target, even if it's not his own.

"Well, well, look who's come crawling back," Branko drawls, his voice deep and thick with mockery. His gaze rakes down Lance's form, his right eye gleaming an unnatural red. "Lookin' good, McClain."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Lance says smoothly despite the fact that his heart rate has spiked on his vital readings on one of Pidge's monitors. Lance comes to a stop in the middle of the room, the guard walking over to Branko's side. "Been a while, Branko. I missed you."

From the better view of one of the rooms security camera's Pidge hacked, Shiro inspects Lance quickly. Lance's broad shoulders are drawn back confidently, and his chin is tilted up with a smirk curling the corners of his mouth. He's holding his whisky casually in one hand while the other hangs by his hip. He looks calm and in control. Shiro's nerves calm somewhat at the sight of him.

Branko raises his eyebrows. "Oh really? Interesting, seeing as the last time I saw you, you called me a… ‘disgusting piece of shit,' was it?"

Lance shrugs and smiles brightly. "Treat ‘em mean…"

Branko barks a laugh and straightens in his seat. "You always have been very funny. The problem is that you caused me a lot of grief when you left. I lost thousands of dollars in product when you decided it would be _funny_ to burn down one of my warehouses," Branko growls, all humour drained from his expression. In fact, he looks utterly furious.

Lance flinches, and the hand holding his whisky starts to tremble. Shiro feels his muscles tense in reflexive preparation for an attack, an instinctive need to protect Lance swirling through his system.

"That's why I brought you a gift," Lance murmurs, his voice dipping low and tempting.

Branko inclines his head. "What gift?"

"Me."

Shiro feels the single word like it's whispered in his head, raising goose bumps down the back of his neck and is flooded with a dizzying combination of desire and revulsion. Pushing away the unhelpful attraction he feels for Lance, Shiro concentrates on his discomfort and annoyance.

The plan was for Lance to offer information, information about the Altea Agency; with the threat the Agency poses to his business Branko would have lapped it up. But this—This was never the plan. This is dangerous and risky, even more so then it was before, and Shiro wants nothing more than to call the whole thing off at this point. But it's too late, Lance is in there with a raging bull, fluttering a red flag in front of its face and idiotically standing his ground like he won't be trampled and killed. Or worse. Much worse, judging by the considering look Branko's giving him.

"Crawl," Branko finally says.

Swallowing hard, Lance slowly drops to his knees and, leaving the glass of whisky on the ground, crawls forward on shaking limbs. Lance looks nervous but intent.

Branko's hand drops to his crotch overtly as he watches Lance crawl. Lance arches his back, tilting his hips and pushing his tightly denim-clad ass in the air. As he reaches Branko, he keeps moving forward, his cheek grazing along the inseam of Branko's trousers until his face is pressed between his legs. Lance's hands come up to grip Branko's thighs as he pushes his nose against where Branko's rubbing himself.

Shiro feels ill, his jaw clenching so hard the tendons are straining.

Suddenly Branko snorts a laugh and Lance pulls back to glance up at him, confusion furrowing his brow.

"You're actually serious about this, McClain?"

Lance colours with embarrassment and snaps, "Obviously, or I wouldn't be here."

Branko laughs heartily. "Get up, slut."

Hesitating, eyes wide with fear, Lance stands on unsteady legs. Branko follows him, towering half a foot over Lance's tall form and almost twice as broad as him. Casually, Branko starts walking forward and Lance backs up, eyes darting about frantically. He no longer has control, he's panicking, shoulders curling in around him protectively and tucking his chin to his chest passively. This is what Shiro feared from the beginning, he knew this would happen.

"You see, the problem is, little cock sluts like you do nothing for me anymore. So eager to give yourself over," Branko says. "Far too eager, far too… willing."

Lance's back hits the wall of mirrors, and he whimpers as Branko grabs his wrist and twists him around, pinning him against the wall with his arm pulled behind his back. Lance struggles instinctively but finds himself trapped by Branko's sizeable mass.

"Much better," Branko groans, rubbing himself against Lance's ass. "Try and break free all you like, little slut. You're not going anywhere."

Lance cries out in pain. "Please. Don't."

Pidge's hand flies to her mouth.

Shiro doesn't hesitate, he's out the van door before he even knows what he's doing, moving on pure instinct. Lance sounds utterly terrified, trapped and desperate. Shiro sent him in there, sent him to this fate, and Shiro will be the one to get him out of it.

"Sh-Shit, Shiro!" Pidge calls, then her voice is coming through his earpiece. "You can't approach, you can't go in there. They'll recognise you. You'll spook them, and Branko will get away, in all likelihood with Lance!"

"I'm going in dark," Shiro says, sprinting through back alleys, going a long way around the club to avoid being seen. "This is my fault. I shouldn't have let him go in, he's not ready, and this mission is too personal. He knows the fucking mark, that's never—"

"Wait, Shiro," Pidge interrupts sternly, leaving no room for argument. Shiro knows that tone; knows her too well to do anything but do as he's told.

Shiro comes to a halt down the alley beside _Get_ _Forked_ and crouches behind a dumpster, out of sight of the single guard at the back door. There's nothing but silence for a few moments as Pidge seems to be watching, listening, considering.

"Pocket," she suddenly says.

Frowning, Shiro reaches into his pockets and finds a tablet in the left one. Wondering when she put it there and how she knew he'd run off, Shiro watches as the footage from Branko's private room appears on the screen.

Lance is slumped forward against the mirrored wall, his shoulders slumped and his whole body wracked with sobs. Branko is standing away from him now, grinning lecherously at Lance's crumpled form, standing tall and strong and victorious. Shiro's stomach drops like lead to the soles of his feet, and he feels himself tense, automatically wanting to go to Lance's side.

" _Wait_ ," Pidge snaps knowingly.

Shiro bites back a frustrated growl and waits.

The guard at the door of the room moves aside, and Shiro squints at the screen. A woman walks into the room, scantily dressed in a tiny vest, short-shorts, fishnets and stilettos, her hair and face made up prettily. She's holding a tray aloft with a bottle and two glasses on it, her eyes judiciously downcast to avoid looking at anything except where she's going.

Lance's body begins to convulse silently, and then Shiro hears it – as Pidge reroutes the sound through his earpiece – the borderline hysterical laughter bubbling up Lance's throat. Everyone in the room is staring at him, even the waitress who has stopped a few feet away from him with wide-eyed trepidation.

"The problem with all this power is that it goes to your head," Lance says, his voice steady once more, if a little manic. He turns around slowly to meet Branko's gaze. "I always wondered why they waited so long, let you get away with so much before we got to act, but I get it now. They give you all that rope so you can hang yourselves with it. They allow you one or two little wins, and you get so arrogant that you get sloppy. Not even searching your waitress."

There is a flash of movement and, though it's hard to make out on the small monitor and with Lance's incredible speed, Shiro watches as Lance retrieves the silenced handgun from under the waitress's tray, shoots the two guards by the door and the one by Branko in the head. Within a single second the three large men thump to the ground, and Lance aims his gun at Branko, smirking and looking impossibly dangerous.

Branko glances at his three men on the floor and swallows hard, eyeing Lance. "You've changed."

Lance shoots again, taking out Branko's knee. He shouts out in pain and slumps to the floor, gripping his leg and writhing on the ground for a moment.

"Get down!" Lance quickly tells the waitress. Just as she lowers herself to the ground two more guards rush in and immediately their heads jolt backwards, blood splattering the door.

Lance stands still for a silent moment.

"Pidge," he says, voice commanding and composed. Shiro's never been certain before, but this moment confirms his suspicious that Lance has had to kill before; with the gaping holes in his background check it's not surprising. "Radio silence."

"On it."

Shiro exhales a slow, relieved breath he'd been holding.

With Pidge running interference on Branko's security's comms, Lance confidently turns back to Branko who is struggling on the floor and attempting to hold his kneecap together. There's a feral gleam in Lance's eyes as he approaches, his head tilting to the side as he examines the damage he dealt Branko with relish.

"That looks painful," Lance hisses in mock sympathy.

Branko glances up at him, face contorted with agony and rage. "You little _fucking_ —"

The gun goes off again, the bullet shattering through Branko's other knee.

"Dahlia, Evie," Lance snarls, pointing at each knee in turn.

Roaring ferociously, Branko reaches out to grab at Lance's leg, but Lance is faster, shooting out his elbow. Branko's arm now hangs uselessly by his side, the man moaning and spluttering.

"James," Lance says, his voice wavering with emotion. Lance presses his boot to Branko's chest and pushes him forcefully backwards. When Branko attempts to swipe at him with his uninjured arm, Lance shoots that too and successfully gets Branko on his back. "Tegan."

"What was it that I told you the first time you hurt one of my friends?" Lance asks, standing over Branko's body and aiming the gun at his head.

Branko gasps out a wet laugh. "You cried and moaned, skewered on my cock."

Lance doesn't even flinch at the words; Shiro does though, understanding the implication and swallowing back the bile rising in his throat.

"I warned you. I said, ‘I'm not a person you want to fuck with.'"

Branko laughs loudly. "I'm not afraid of—"

The quiet clicking sound of three suppressed gunshots comes through Shiro's earpiece, Branko twitches and stills. Two in the chest, one in the head. Assassin.

Shiro watches the muscles in Lance's shoulders shift as he heaves deep breaths, in and out, staring down at Branko. From the angle of the camera combined with Lance's downcast gaze, Shiro can't make out his expression, but he recognises the way Lance's body relaxes bit by bit, muscle by muscle. He looks resigned, relieved, vindicated.

In that moment Shiro wants to hold him and tell him everything will be okay now. Tell him that nothing like this will ever happen to him again. Tell him that he's safe.

_I'll be fine; I've got you to protect me after all._

Lance turns to face the waitress, checking his clip habitually, looking determined and focussed. "We need to GTFO. Stay on my six and you'll be sweet," he tells her.

Mutely, she nods. Not once did the waitress scream, Shiro would find it odd if he didn't know she was an informant for the Agency, for him more specifically. A disgruntled employee willing to sell Branko down the River Styx; she was neither difficult to find nor difficult to convince. The man was truly loathed and will not be missed.

"Take the back entrance," Pidge tells Lance.

"Affirmative."

Shiro takes this instruction as well, pocketing the tablet and moving down the alley, keeping to the shadows. The guard's smoking a cigarette distractedly, the amber tip glowing brightly in the darkness like a target. The only thing he's got going for his guardly duties is that his backs up against the wall.

Completely silent Shiro sneaks up as close as possible and makes it to a small pile of boxes a few feet away from the guard. He'd rather not kill this man, he's just some random guy doing a shitty job. They're not all monsters, some of them only want to feed their families and likely got stationed here by a corrupt boss.

Shiro's in the midst of working on the logistics of a distraction to incapacitate the guard when there's a noise behind the door he's guarding. The guard turns to it, and it's all the distraction Shiro needs. He charges over and clamps his arm around the man's neck, swiftly turning him to face the ground, so he doesn't see any faces or identifying qualities.

The man relaxes quickly under the pressure of Shiro's hold. Shiro immediately whirls to assess the new risk and freezes when he's suddenly looking down the barrel of a gun. The hand on the weapon hesitates just before pulling the trigger.

"Jesus fuck," Lance hisses, lowering his gun. "I nearly shot you, Shiro!"

"No, you didn't."

"I could have."

"Nope. You're too well trained for that," Shiro surmises, straightening and glancing at the waitress. "Hello Sally, I'm Takashi Shirogane. It's nice to finally meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances."

"I, um—yeah, n-nice to meet you too," Sally mumbles, staring at him intently.

With his back to Sally, Lance rolls his eyes like he does whenever someone turns into a stuttering mess around Shiro. It's an odd thing to be exasperated about considering how much it happens due to Lance's charming, attractive presence as well.

Shiro shrugs out of his suit jacket. "Here," he says, draping it over her shoulders, her pale cheeks going pink at his proximity. "The money is in the inside pocket. To make contact as minimal as possible I'll send a surveillance team to follow you home and to watch you for a few days until you move and start a new job."

"Oh, okay. Thank you."

Shiro directs her down the alleys as far away from _Get_ _Forked_ as possible before she hits the main street and sends her on her way. Lance is pouting to the side, scuffing the toe of his expensive shoe and mumbling something like, ‘minimal contact is the last thing she wants.'

"Keep an eye on her, Pidge," Shiro says as Sally disappears around a corner.

"Aye, aye, Cap'n."

Shiro takes Lance's gun, turns on the safety and unscrews the silencer, tucking the gun into his belt and pocketing the silencer as Lance has nowhere to conceal them in his current outfit. Then, he heads off towards the front of _Get_ _Forked_ and Lance follows the silent command obediently. At the mouth of the alley, Shiro notices the two guards at the entrance of _Get Forked_ haven't moved, but Pidge won't be able to deter them forever, so he turns sharply away from the nightclub and casually strolls down the street.

"You don't have to do that, you know," Lance comments inanely, long strides catching up to keep step with Shiro. "Westernise your name. Shirogane Takashi sounds cooler anyway; very James Bond."

Shiro doesn't respond to Lance's quiet, nervous chatter. He waits until they've rounded another corner a block down from _Get_ _Forked_ before he whirls on Lance, allowing his anger to boil over.

"That was reckless, insubordinate bullshit, McClain!" Shiro growls, carefully controlling his volume as to not draw attention to the empty street. "We had a plan, a good plan that would have worked, and you _ignored_ it, and in doing so defied my orders. Not to mention the fact that you withheld information about your connection to the target."

Shiro can't keep the bitterness from his voice and internally winces as Lance smirks, latching onto it immediately.

"You're seriously pissed because I didn't tell you about my relationship with him?"

" _Relationship_?" Shiro baulks. "Lance, that man didn't have 'relationships,' he used and abused people through intimidation and force, he never—"

"You think I don't know that?" Lance snarls, eyes flashing dangerously as he quickly closes the distance between them, making Shiro take a defensive step backwards. "I _lived_ through what he did to me and my friends. I know exactly what it was. But if I'd told you, you wouldn't have let me go, and I wouldn't've had the chance to give him exactly what he deserved."

Breathing far more heavily than when he was in combat, Shiro stares at Lance's expressive face, emotions raw and resolute, daring Shiro to test him.

"This is all you wanted, isn't it?" Shiro says, realisation washing over him like icy cold water. There's a flicker of worry that softens Lance's expression for a moment, as if he's been found out, but it disappears when Shiro continues. "You sought out the Agency, got me to train you and pushed this mission, all so you could get a shot at him. For petty revenge on an ex."

Lance laughs humourlessly and shakes his head. "Partly. Maybe I was just tired of…" He trails off, and his eyes widen, a wicked smirk curving his mouth. "You're _jealous_."

Shiro tenses.

"What," he says through his teeth.

Blue eyes search him, scrutinising and stripping in their intensity. Lance slowly moves towards him, tilting his head curiously and perceiving more than Shiro would like. He's still missing the mark, slightly left of centre; seeing the emotions but not quite comprehending the reason.

"Or… something…" Lance squints at him, backing him up against the rough brick wall.

Despite Lance standing distractingly close, Shiro's keen senses alert him to approaching footsteps. He and Lance glance up just in time to see a man around the corner, dressed in a plain black suit with a visible earpiece he's clearly one of Branko's guards, fortunately, he's looking the other way.

Shiro doesn't even think, pure instinct finds the quickest way to hide them, hide Lance. He grabs Lance's shoulders and pushes him against the wall, mashing their mouths together messily and bracketing Lance with his arms. It's not easy to hide Lance, he's tall, and his shoulders are broad but he's lean, and if Shiro pushes in close enough, with the help of the flickering street light above, it should be enough to protect him.

It's only when Shiro's sure he's covered enough of Lance's recognisable form that he realises he's actually kissing Lance. And not particularly well, despite Lance's eager efforts. When he's finally concentrating enough, Shiro tilts his head and presses his tongue into the warmth of Lance's soft mouth.

Lance groans and he grips desperately at Shiro's shirt, trying to pull him closer. Shiro's uncertain how much of this Lance is going along with for the act, even though he knows Lance is an excellent actor he can't help but wonder if this is sparked by any real desire. He wonders if Lance has considered it as much as Shiro has. He wonders if Lance has thought of Shiro this intimately like Shiro has thought of him.

All speculation is driven hastily from his mind as Lance's fingers squeeze at his ass and slot their hips and thighs together. Lance breaks the kiss, his head tilting back to hiss an expletive into the chilly night air. Shiro grunts at the delectable friction Lance's body brings and instinctively chases the feeling, rolling his hips, his lips finding Lance's gorgeous, long throat.

Shiro kisses his way up the column of Lance's neck, the way he's always wanted to, sucking and licking at the beautiful dark skin. It's all too much, the overwhelming sensation of Lance's racing pulse under his tongue and hearing the hitch of Lance's breath with every teasing scrape of teeth.

It's as he's listening that he realises the footsteps have gone, long gone actually, and freezes with Lance's earlobe in his mouth.

_Fuck._

This isn't—He can't do this. Not now. Not like this. Not after Lance just killed the man who abused him and hurt him.

Shiro pulls back slowly as the realisation of what they're doing dawns on him, staring with wide-eyed concern at Lance. He doesn't seem to share Shiro's consternation, and he flips them, pushing a shock-pliant Shiro against the wall and ravaging his mouth once more. It takes a moment for his brain to regain some semblance of control but when he does he sets his palms firmly against Lance's chest and shoves him away.

"What are you doing?"

Lance smiles, his eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth red and wet from kissing. "What I need to. I know you want it too."

He advances on Shiro again but is repelled.

"No," Shiro shakes his head as if freeing himself from the heady buzz from Lance's proximity and smell and sounds. "No. It was just a cover. For the guard."

"C'mon, Shiro. I'm not stupid, I can feel how much you want me. Did you watch the way I manipulated Branko? Did you come to save me and be my big strong protector?" Lance says, singsong and mocking, even as he smiles provocatively. "Did it turn you on to see me so weak? So weak and innocent and in desperate need of your help."

"No, I—"

"Do you want to take me like he was going to? Pinned down under your weight, helpless to fight back and utterly at your mercy. Squirming and in need of a good—"

"Stop it," Shiro interrupts sharply, knowing exactly what Lance is doing. "It made me feel sick watching him do that to you. Even if it was an act, even if—" He exhales, shaking his head. "I came because I thought you were in serious danger, Lance. Because I thought you needed back up."

The feigned flirtation disappears from Lance's expression in an instant, replaced by anger and frustration, his lip curling into a spiteful snarl. Then he laughs, a harsh sound, sadness in his eyes.

"You don't trust me. You don't believe in me."

Shiro shakes his head fervently. "That's not—Of course I do, I wouldn't have trained you if I didn't. This is… situational. It doesn't have—"

"Don't worry about it," Lance says, his voice hollow as he waves a hand to dismiss Shiro's words. Shiro's not even sure if he's listening.

Lance is emotional, exhausted, and Shiro can see straight through the brave mask he's failing to wear over his pained expression. Compartmentalising, Lance is a master at it, it's a part of why he's so good at controlling his emotions and making people believe what he wants them to. But this is too much, this is too personal; a tender spot, a vulnerability Lance probably didn't even know he had.

It's why he's lashing out at Shiro. It's why he's seeking comfort, seeking distraction.

Lance means more than that to Shiro. Far more. Shiro will protect Lance, even if it's from himself. Even if it denies him the exact thing he longs for – though this isn't the way Shiro wants Lance. Even if it means Lance will hate him, for now, or forever.

Lance walks away, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

"I believe in you, Lance," Shiro says quietly to himself, Lance too far away to hear but he feels it's important for the world to know.

 

* * *

 

**13:01 – September 28th, 2017**

"This isn't going to work," Hunk says for the millionth time over the car's speakers from the safety of his house.

"Ye of little faith," Lance responds, shaking his head as he navigates the suburban streets in Hunk's white Land Rover Evoque. "Honestly, Hunk, you should show a little pride in your work. Shiro and I trust in your tech, to the point of literally putting our lives on the line."

Lance tries not to scratch at the itchy metallic dot stuck to his nose. Hunk's design, a scrambler to throw off any face detection software without alerting any systems of an anomaly. "I haven't tested them yet!" Hunk had complained. Lance merely responded with a shrug, questioning when the last time was that something Hunk made didn't work. The answer: Never.

The four-wheel-drive handles better than Lance thought it would, almost like a small car despite its size. Lance darts in and out of traffic as usual, enjoying the drive, focussing on the challenge of weaving through peak-hour traffic and attempting to ignore the presence of the man beside him.

It's a difficult task, it always is, always has been. Shiro has this aura, commanding and alleviating all at once and it goes against all his ingrained rebelliousness to feel soothed by the safety of his presence. But this isn't why Lance is working so hard to ignore him.

No, he's distracting himself with driving because if he doesn't, he'll be watching Shiro's even twitch of movement and listening for every breath and smelling his clean scent filling the air in the enclosed space. If he doesn't distract himself, his mind will run rampant with images of confined spaces and lust darkened grey eyes, and his hand clamped over a perfect mouth. If he doesn't distract himself, he'll be lost in the phantom feeling of Shiro rubbing himself, panting and desperate, against Lance's leg and hot, wet breath against his fingers and a solidly muscled, broad body pinning him against a wall.

And yes, he's well aware of how crazy he sounds.

Really, he should be focused and alert in case Keith speeds around a corner in his roaring, over-compensating red sports car but, unlike Hunk, he actually has complete faith in Hunk's contraption.

"Okay, let's go over this again—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, no," Lance interrupts Shiro vehemently. They've gone over it a million times. "We know it. You know it, Hunk knows it, and I know it. We've all got the plan, and we all know it won't pan out anyway. This, I did not miss about you."

His complaint is met by silence, and he's worried for a moment he's hurt Shiro's feelings, but should know better by now. He turns to see Shiro smirking at him from the passenger seat, sitting comfortably despite Lance's darting movements and speeding. Shiro's trying to get a rise out of him.

"Shut up," Lance mutters, turning his gaze back to the traffic and absolutely not blushing.

"It's working, Hunk," Shiro assures. "We've been driving around for almost ten minutes. Pidge would have found us by now."

Hunk grunts in agreement but he still sounds nervous, likely jolting his leg and chewing on his lip.

"Which leaves one thing left to do," Lance says, turning into the parking lot of a tall building. Just past midday on a weekday, the lot is relatively full, even as they go whirl up and up the steep ramp. Lance transfers Hunk to their earpieces, searches through his contacts for ‘Mullet' and presses the call button.

After a few rings, a familiar voice answers with a wary, "Hello?"

"Waddup, Short-N-Angry?" Lance responds cheerfully.

"Lance," Keith grinds out between his teeth. "Where the fuck are you?"

"Now, now, no need to swear. I know for a fact your big bro raised you better than that."

"Shiro? Where is he?"

"Sittin' pretty next to me," Lance says, glancing over at Shiro whose brow is furrowed in sadness and confusion. Lance doesn't even want to imagine how much it hurts to have your own brother hunting you down.

Keith pauses, stopping to actually think for the first time since Lance called. "Why are you calling me?"

"We need to have a little chat. 702 East Street parking lot, level twelve, be there or be square."

Lance ends the call and pulls into a parking space on the tenth floor. Double checking his clips and the handgun strapped to his thigh, Lance takes his Colt M4 assault rifle from the backseat and exits the vehicle. He hopes he doesn't have to use his weapons, but his optimism only gets him so far. Keith himself should be classified as a deadly weapon, and if push comes to shove, if it comes down to Shiro or Keith, Lance won't hesitate to take Keith down. But he's a good shooter, one of the best, and he certainly won't be aiming to kill, he's more than capable of slowing Keith without doing too much damage to him.

As much as Keith frustrates him, they are friends, close friends, and Keith is Shiro's brother despite his idiocy. It makes Lance feel slightly sick to think about hurting Keith, but this is where they are, this is the corner they've been backed into.

Shiro follows Lance along the rows of cars, checking his own handgun before tucking it back into his shoulder holster under his hoodie.

"I've lost him," Hunk reports, huffing a frustrated breath. "She's too good, man."

Lance shakes his head, not that Hunk can see it. "No man, all good. We expected it anyway. We'll see him as he drives up and we'll definitely hear that loud red penis of a car."

Hunk actually chuckles at that while Lance tucks himself between two cars and behind a concrete structural beam, Shiro situating himself behind the opposite one. The plan is that when Keith gets up to the twelfth floor and doesn't find them there, he calls them back, then they negotiate for a civil discussion.

They wait in tense silence as a few minutes pass. As Lance watches, he carefully avoids looking at Shiro, feeling his eyes on him almost constantly and not wanting to meet those beautiful grey eyes. The situation is challenging enough as is without looking over at that gorgeous man and remembering all that he loved and lost and found again, only to think about the fact that he could very well lose him again, here and now.

Lance can't lose him again. He refuses to.

"What if Pidge comes too?" Hunk questions almost at a whisper despite the fact that he's not actually here.

"She won't risk it, and Keith certainly won't risk her. She's your job, keep control on the building's systems as much as possible remember," Lance explains, leaning against the beam.

"Okay, but see, here's the first problem, I haven't found any resistance yet."

"Maybe she's waiting for Keith to arrive," Shiro suggests at a low whisper so that Lance can only hear him through his earpiece.

"No… I don't think that—Wait. There's… Oh, crap!"

"Hunk?"

"You have to—"

The unmistakable sound of an explosion deafens Lance and makes him duck instinctively, it's accompanied by a rumble and crunch of concrete that makes the ground tremble violently. There's a more defined directional metallic tearing and scraping. Lance glances up and, through a powdery cloud, sees that the car Shiro was crouched against has disappeared. And so has Shiro.

Coughing and covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, Lance gets to his feet and rushes forward. He needs to get to Shiro, needs to make sure he's okay. It's Keith, it has to be.

Lance skids to a halt as a figure appears in the slowly clearing air. Too short and slim to be Shiro, Lance recognises her silhouette immediately and his heart leaps, flooding his veins with adrenaline. This is bad. This is very bad.

"You're not going anywhere, Lance," she says, her voice as fierce and confident as ever.

There's a low buzzing of electricity, and a flickering green glow is visible through the smoke, coiling at her feet. As the dust clears, Lance can see her golden brown hair braided tightly at the back of her head, escaped tendrils curling around her face and neck. She's wearing a simple green hoodie and grey sweatpants. Her expression is practically murderous. Contacts in, hair back, conductor whip in hand; Pidge is prepared to fight.

Shit, Lance thinks, swallowing hard. I hate fighting Pidge. Not because he worries about hurting her or because she can beat him, but because with all those electrical currents she's so talented at wielding it hurts.

"Lance, Lance! Pidge is there!" Hunk's panicked voice comes through his earpiece.

"I'm well aware Hunk, I'm looking right at her," Lance says calmly. "Pidge, we don't have to do this."

Pidge smirks. "Do me a favour and let that oaf know the systems are all his, they won't help you in this barren fucking parking lot."

"Oh yeah, well—"

"Hunk, shut up!" Lance snaps, interrupting Hunk's petty response Pidge can't even hear anyway. "Listen, Pidge, we honestly came here to talk. Shiro is innocent, you of all people should know that the footage was faked."

Heaving a sigh, Pidge swings her whip back and forth, the electric current crackling against the floor. "You think I'm stupid Lance? I checked the damn footage myself, it was legit, Shiro was there that day when… when it happened. I know you love him, and I know you're just trying to protect him, but he killed my brother."

"No, he was with me!"

Sadness creases Pidge's brow. "I'm sorry, Lance. He's down there with Keith, and after Reactivation he stands no chance against him. This is… for the best."

"You can't honestly believe that," Lance implores, voice breaking with emotion. "You've known Shiro for years, he's your family!"

"He took my family away from me. This is all I can…"

Her head bows and her shoulders slump as if the weight of her sadness is too much to bear.

Keith he understands, not so bright and easily manipulated by the company he's been working for almost all his life, the ‘good guys.' But Pidge, Lance expected more from her, expected her to be able to open her eyes to the truth or at least the gaping holes in the evidence mounted against Shiro.

Something inside her broke the day she found out about Matt; grief fracturing through her impossibly bright mind. Ever since she's been wandering aimlessly, going through the motions of life on autopilot. It's like the day she lost Matt she also lost herself. It hurts to see her like this, four years of it. But now Lance can save her too, now he can bring her back to life. Pidge and Matt and Keith. Just like he did Shiro.

He just needs to convince her.

"Katie," Lance tries, his voice soothing. "I think I found Matt."

Pidge flinches and when she straightens her brown eyes are dark with rage and determination.

"Stop lying!"

Lance has less than a second to duck as the whip buzzes dangerously over his head and swears loudly, leaping to the side.

Since he's duelled with her and that damned whip on many ‘friendly' occasions, Lance can hear in the low whirring of electricity that it's only set to its lowest voltage. The amp settings start from a tingle and go all the way up to complete loss of bodily control; his guess from the sound is that it's currently on a slightly more painful level than the tingle level. Even so, do not fucking touch. It fucking aches.

Definitely an Avoid-At-All-Costs kinda situation.

With that in mind, Lance squeezes the trigger. Once, twice. Aiming just shy of Pidge's right foot. Because despite her expression – that tells him she's not holding back – she is his friend, in fact, she's practically become family, and he doesn't want to hurt her.

Problem Number One: Pidge sees through his bluff. She doesn't even flinch at the shots and swings her whip around, aiming for his assault rifle. It coils around the gun easily and just manages to zap Lance's fingertips before he drops his weapon.

But he doesn't waste the opportunity, because Pidge's whip is occupied and leaving her open. Lance charges at her, getting beyond her mid-ranged weapon advantage and aiming his shoulder straight for her solar plexus. Problem Number the Second: Pidge has been a martial arts expert since she was fifteen. She dodges the attack smoothly.

Lance grins broadly. He lied, he actually loves hand-to-hand combat with Pidge. She's agile and quick and intelligent in her movements, exploiting weaknesses and always ten moves ahead. And with the added challenge of the whip whirring around him, Lance is actually enjoying himself. He's missed this, he's missed her. This version of Pidge; passionate and intent and bright. Not the shell of a person she's been for the last four years.

They dance around each other, punching and blocking and kicking and dodging, neither gaining much leeway. And then a sound rings out that turns Lance's stomach, drawing his mind instantly away from his fight. Shiro, crying out in pain.

Pidge takes advantage of his panicked hesitation and lands a hard blow across Lance's cheekbone, sending him stumbling backwards and onto his knees as blinding starbursts fill his vision.

With his eyes closed, Lance hears Pidge up the voltage on her whip, wanting to end this fight. He opens his eyes, vision blurry, and with a gasp barely rolls to avoid the arcing whip, the power of it rising goosebumps across his left shoulder where it narrowly missed.

One desperate thought enters his mind. Get to Shiro.

Lance grabs a handful of the thick dust coating the ground from the destroyed floor and flicks it up into Pidge's eyes. She hisses and gasps, ducking her head instinctively shield her eyes. Lance draws his handgun, aiming at Pidge's palm, and fires. The handle of the whip jumps from Pidge's hand, and the whirring of electricity fades to silence.

Lance doesn't hesitate, doesn't even bother incapacitating her, because there is only one thing on his mind.

His life has always been a shitstorm, a hurricane battering away at him, one bad thing after the other. The world spins around him, a mess of broken people and a flurry of violence, and there is only one person who has ever made him feel safe. One person who makes him feel that calm, soothing peace at the centre of the hurricane.

Takashi.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con: While the scene is depicted as non-con, it's merely a part of Lance's deception, and he's actually in far more control of the situation than it seems. Although there are implications of actual past abuse in another scene.
> 
> I know I said this chapter might be delayed but I unexpectantly smashed it out real easy. But I'm having surgery this week (nothing major) on top of everything else so the NEXT one will likely be delayed. Just to keep you guys in the loop.
> 
> Thank you for all your amazing comments, reading them makes me so happy and gives me that extra little boost I need to write ^_^


	6. Oceans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thank you to [ifellfromtheskies](https://ifellfromtheskies.tumblr.com/) for this [incredible artwork](https://ifellfromtheskies.tumblr.com/post/174713934694/based-on-worth-the-risk-by-sarogane) that is actually sheer perfection, you're an angel and I adore you <3

_It feels like there's oceans_  
_Between you and me once again_  
_We hide our emotions_  
_Under the surface and try to pretend_  
~ Oceans - Seafret

**16:39 – September 28th, 2017**

Shiro stares across the way where Lance is crouching behind a concrete support beam, keeping an eye out for Keith, as Shiro _should_ be. The problem is, Shiro can't stop watching Lance.

No matter how much he tells himself to leave it alone, tells himself he doesn't want to know or that he doesn't deserve to consider anything beyond friendship and comradery with Lance. His mind whirls, remembering their encounter in the panic room, remembering the tenderness in his eyes when he looks at Shiro, and the fierce protectiveness in his voice when he talks about Shiro. It doesn't matter how much Shiro resents himself for whatever he did to hurt Lance, he can't stop himself from obsessing over Lance. Every thought and feeling within gravitates towards Lance, drawing Shiro closer and closer, desperate for answers and needing to be by Lance's side.

Lance looks tense, from more than the incoming confrontation with Keith. Lance is avoiding looking at Shiro, and Shiro knows he's making him uncomfortable but can't seem to stop. Hunk's saying something, something Shiro can't focus on, and then the strain in Lance's voice pulls Shiro from his stupor.

"Hunk?"

" _You have to—_ "

Shiro feels it before Hunk's words are cut off; the unstable shift, the stomach-dropping fall. The floor beneath him quakes with a grinding crunch, and Shiro loses balance, hitting his head as he tumbles sideways and reaches out to catch himself on the nearby car. But the car, which had been allowing him a small semblance of control, tilts threateningly towards him with a groan of tearing metal. Getting all the leverage he can muster, Shiro manages to get his legs under him and rolls to the side. He shuffles desperately away from the vehicle that smashes onto its roof where he'd just been.

Panting heavily, pain flaring through his scraped palms and a gash on his leg, Shiro glances around himself. The painted ‘9’ on the wall and the gaping hole in the ceiling informs him that he's fallen through the floor and to the level below. His ears are ringing from the overwhelming noise of focused explosives, the remnants of which hang on the ceiling.

Slowly, gingerly, Shiro pushes himself to his feet, cringing at the aching strain through his muscles. He glances around through the dust-filled air and freezes at the sight of an approaching figure. They're impossibly fast, and Shiro doesn't have time to defend himself as the first blow lands, a burst of sharp pain across his jaw, sending him staggering backwards. His legs are swept from underneath him, and he lands with a winded grunt on his back, a foot forcefully pinning him to the spot.

Shiro glances up, and the dust has cleared enough that he can see his attacker. Inky black hair partially obscures scowling, dark eyes and the line of a sharp jaw Shiro recognises immediately. Not just from the image Hunk had shown him, but from his memories, hundreds and thousands of fond memories flooding his mind. Warm, protective, exasperated, comforting, loving.

"Keith…" Shiro murmurs. "Brother."

His jaw clenches and his boot presses more firmly into Shiro's chest.

"You don't get to call me that anymore," Keith snarls savagely.

_"They said that no one wanted me—that mum and dad… that you were forced to keep me. That you don't really want me…"_

_"No, Keith. Mum, dad, me… we all want you here, you're family. You're my brother, and you always will be."_

Shiro smiles sadly up at him. "You're my brother, Keith, and you always will be. And I'm sorry—sorry that I wasn't… that I wasn't there for you."

Keith laughs, utterly humourless and slightly manic. "Weren't there for… Shiro, you _killed_ Matt."

The grief contorting Keith's expression as he spits the words is profound, emotion torn directly from his core, utterly unhinging him. Shiro feels an echoing ache in his chest, familiar when reminiscing about blue eyes and brilliant grins and sharp wit. Love. Devotion. Even in the dim light of the parking garage, his vision is drawn to the golden glow at Keith's finger.

"He's your husband…" Shiro realises, his heart clenching as he finally understands Keith's torment.

" _Was_ ," Keith corrects, words dripping with venom. "But you took him from me. My own brother. But then, I guess I never really was, right?"

"Keith, you will always—"

With a feral snarl Keith raises his foot and slams it back down, but Shiro reflexively rolls always and rises to his feet. Keith sets on him quickly, throwing punches Shiro finds challenging to block with one arm and strenuous to dodge with the pain from the fall searing through his body. Keith only gets more and more aggravated, if it's even possible – though if anyone can do it, it's Keith.

"Fight back!" he roars as Shiro bounces off the hood of a car.

Shiro remembers being better than Keith, marginally. He remembers duelling Keith, over and over, from the first year they'd adopted Keith to the final year before Matt disappeared. Keith's lightning fast reflexes make him Shiro's most formidable opponent, but Shiro always beat him on strategy Keith never had a mind for. Presently, however, Shiro is at a sheer disadvantage; too injured, missing a combat usable arm, and his body and mind too unaccustomed to fighting with the four-year Deactivation.

Needless to say, Keith pummels him out of his defensive stance, landing a few powerful hits that send Shiro reeling and his body screaming in pain.

"God fucking dammit, Shiro!" Keith rages. "Fight back!"

"No," he murmurs quietly. Then, spitting out a mouthful of blood, more loudly asserts, "No."

Keith growls and punches him in the gut, making Shiro double over, fall to his knees and land heavily on his side. He groans, low and long, and struggles to draw oxygen into his protesting lungs to no avail. Keith kicks him, once, twice, and Shiro cries out because it _hurts_.

It's a mark of how genuinely despondent and broken Keith is that he'd resort to such honourless tactics and that his attacks are so emotionally fuelled. But it doesn't matter what Keith does to him, Shiro refuses to fight back. Because it reminds him of when Keith was a kid, lost and scared and alone, and all Shiro wants to do is wrap his arms around him, hold him, comfort him.

The attack finally relents and Shiro groans as he rolls onto his back, tears streaming down his face and breath coming out in frantic pants. He glances up through his blurred vision to see Keith aiming a handgun at him, tear tracks glistening on his cheeks too, but his features are twisted with fury.

He's beaten, defeated. If this is what his brother needs then so be it. He has nothing left.

Shiro takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "I failed you. I'm so sorry, Keith."

He hears Keith suck in a sharp, resolved breath, imagines his finger squeezing against the trigger decisively and—

"Keith!" a voice barks, full of unexpected command.

Shiro's eyes fly open.

_Lance._

His heart pounds, suddenly hopeful and desperate, flooding him with adrenaline and awareness. He lifts his head to see Lance standing forty feet away, aiming his handgun at Keith. Keith doesn't glance over though, his seething gaze remaining locked onto Shiro.

"Keith, I swear to fuck if you so much as twitch I will drop you," Lance warns, and with a gun in his hand the threat is an undeniable promise. "Put down the gun."

Shiro watches Lance, perceives the unwavering strength of his stance, the intensity in the sharp line of his jaw, and the determination in his bright eyes. Lance is holding himself with the kind of terrifyingly calm desperation of a man who is faced with losing everything. And Shiro realises, with an icy chill of fear, that Lance will unquestionably kill Keith. Regardless of their friendship, regardless of how close they grew over the years.

"I don't think you will, Lance," Keith responds, his voice hollow. "Will you really risk me shooting him?"

"You're going to anyway."

Keith barks a dismayed laugh. "That's true."

"But if you don't, I won't be forced to kill you," Lance explains flatly.

Shiro, slowly, unthreateningly, pushes himself up on his elbow. "Keith, _please_ ," he begs. "Listen to him."

"Here I thought you were above begging for your life, guess I was wrong about that as—"

"I'm not begging for mine, I'm begging for yours!" Shiro challenges, despite the gun trained on him. Panic is streaming through his veins, overflowing. "If you shoot me, Lance will kill you and I can't— _Please_ , Keith."

"You think I give a shit about my life?" Keith shouts, his pitch reaching hysteria. "In one fucking day you destroyed all the family I know! You destroyed _everything_ I lived for; you took my husband and my brother away from me. I had _nothing_ left!"

"Keith, Matt is still alive, he's—"

"Liar!" Keith grinds out between his teeth.

In his periphery, Shiro sees Lance tense, and his hands tighten on the gun. Fear surges through him in waves and sends his heart racing. He exhales, long and slow.

"We've found him. Lance has, and I believe in him," Shiro says soothingly, keeping his voice low and gentle. "Lance has been searching for Matt for four years, and I was sceptical too, but I saw it, all of his research and his data. It's real, Keith. Matt's still out there. Waiting for you."

Keith's shaking his head, but Shiro can see his resolve weakening. "No. Lance is a born liar. Always has been, always will be."

"But he wouldn't lie to me."

Shiro says it with conviction. Even if Lance's keeping things close to his chest because he's been hurt, Shiro knows, without a single shred of doubt, that Lance would never lie to him. Keith wavers, hesitates with a response, and understanding clears his dark, angry eyes.

"Matt's my best friend, Keith," Shiro says, a pleading edge to his voice now. "How could you ever think I would do anything to hurt him?"

"Because I _saw_ it, we all saw—"

Keith's determination has been withered away to exasperation and, in speaking, his arm holding the gun sweeps sideways emphatically, and Lance's weapon rings out. For a horrifying moment Shiro's heart seizes with the possibility that Lance has shot Keith with his deadly aim, but then he sees the gun go flying from Keith's hand, and relief floods him.

Keith whirls on Lance in annoyance, the sheer fury he'd been awash in now ebbing away.

"Step away, Mullet," Lance orders. "Now!"

"Or what? You gonna shoot me?"

"Keith!" Shiro snaps because Lance will shoot him. Even if Keith's not currently a threat, Shiro wouldn't put it past Lance to shoot his knee or shoulder with an excuse of incapacitating him.

Lance simply rolls his eyes. "Will you just listen for once in your fucking—?"

Lance's question disappears into a startled cry of agony, and he drops to one knee as his entire body convulses violently. Shiro sits upright immediately and notices the sparking wire coiled around Lance's wrist. He follows the wire to the hand of a petite woman with freckles and big, brown eyes.

_Katie._

"You didn't really think that was enough to get rid of me, did you?"

"I was… a little… preoccupied," Lance tells her through clenched teeth.

Pidge shakes her head sadly, glancing over at Shiro. "You're only making this harder on yourself, Lance. I didn't want you to have to see this…"

Keith seems to remember himself, Pidge's presence refocusing him. He walks over to where his gun is lying on the ground and inspects it. Lance's shot seems to have only caused aesthetic damage, so Keith settles it in his palm and strolls back over to Shiro.

"Don't you fucking touch him!" Lance growls, ferocious and intimidating despite the electric current shuddering through his body.

"Jesus, Lance, you shouldn't even be able to speak right now," Pidge mumbles, mostly to herself, and turns the dial on her whip.

Lance screams, his head bowing and body collapsing in on itself with the pain and loss of control, and yet he still refuses to hit the ground. The sound of his pain shatters through Shiro's ribcage like a physical force, and all he wants to do is make it stop, help Lance, protect him. He's about to instinctively move over to Lance but Keith's standing over him, aiming a gun at his head.

"I'm sorry, Lance," Keith says, quiet and resigned.

Shiro entire body tenses. This can't be happening. He just found his way back to Lance, and now it's all being taken away from him again. He hasn't had time to confront this thing between them, he hasn't had time to remember it. He hasn't had time to remember their beginning and their possible happiness, even the sadness of their end. He wants all of it.

"No," Lance mumbles, voice cracking with the shockwaves wracking his body. Broken with emotion, defiance. "No, no, no. _No!_ "

With a trembling arm, Lance reaches back to grab the wire and heaves it from Pidge's unsuspecting grip. He swings the whip around, and it wraps around Keith's waist, the power of the electric shock dropping Keith to the ground. The gun goes off in Keith's tensing hand and Shiro curls in on himself protectively. But there's no pain.

Lance shakes his wrist free of the whip with a hiss just as Pidge charges at him. He barely dives out of the way in time to avoid a furious flurry of punches. Whatever lasting damage the volts coursing through his body caused leave Lance stumbling and slow, not seeming to respond to the movements his mind tells it to make. However, strategy is Lance's natural born gift, with an intuition for it the likes of which Shiro has never seen, and he manages to calculate his bodies faults enough to remain safely on the defensive against Pidge.

A nearby frustrated growl draws Shiro's attention, and he glances up to see Keith breaking free of the whip, his dark, dangerous eyes fixated on Lance. Shiro glances between Lance, Pidge, and Keith and knows that Lance can't handle both of them.

"Shit," Shiro hisses, rolling himself onto his stomach and attempting to push himself up, preferably standing and in fighting form. The problem is that he's severely injured.

His forearm _stings_ – gash dripping blood onto the dusty concrete floor – and his chest _burns_ – if not broken ribs then some definite bruising – and that's all before the stomach-churning nausea sets in from the battering his head took. His body is complaining, begging him to lie down and rest and not move, preferably for a very long time. But Lance is in danger, so he pushes through the excruciating pain and gets to his feet without a single second of hesitation.

By the time Shiro's standing upright on trembling legs Keith's on his way towards Lance. Shiro knows he won't be able to catch up, not in his condition, so he shuffles over to where Keith dumped the whip and picks it up. Wielding it is oddly familiar, and Shiro turns the electricity off, with vague recollections of testing the weapon out many years ago, because the last thing he wants to do is hurt Keith. He whirls the whip around and catches it around Keith's ankle, making him stumble and catch himself on his hands before face planting.

"Shiro!" Keith snarls, glancing back at him.

And shit. Shiro's in no shape to fight Keith, but he had no plan beyond get-Keith-away-from-Lance because that's all that mattered. But faced with a rampant Keith, struggling free of the whip but keeping a hold on it, tethering them together in a rather lovely symbolic gesture of their brotherhood, if not for Keith's murderous intent.

Shiro searches for something, anything, merely holding the whip as at least some form of weapon he may be able to use. Behind Keith, he can see Lance trying to fight back Pidge enough to distract Keith from Shiro, but she's utterly unrelenting, and Keith is striding towards Shiro with deadly intent, and there's absolutely nothing he can—

" _Incoming_ ," Hunk's voice in his ear, calm and instructing.

Car alarms go off, blaring and making Shiro flinch at there loud abruptness, and then the sprinkler system rains down on them. Lance, having worked with Hunk on numerous missions, is the only one who isn't diverted by the disturbance and launches himself away from Pidge, past Keith and rolls to pick up the handgun on the ground. In one fluid movement, Lance has both of them in his lethal sights and suppressed, standing protectively in front of Shiro.

"Great work, dude!" Lance commends; the grateful cheerfulness in his voice at odds with his grim expression.

" _That oaf can have all the systems_ ," Hunk mocks in a high-pitched voice as the noise promptly ceases at his command. Then mutters pettily, " _She's the oaf_."

"All right, that's it! E-fucking-nough! Can we stop with all the back and forth, oh-I-wonder-who's-going-to-win nonsense?" Lance snaps as Pidge and Keith reluctantly raise their hands in surrender. "It's overly dramatic and _exhausting_. I didn't even come here to fight in the first place! So, since I have the power at present thanks to my boy Hunk, you're both going to sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up and _listen_."

Begrudgingly, Pidge and Keith follow his instruction, sitting themselves down on the dirty floor under the threat of the gun aimed at them. Shiro allows himself to carefully settle himself on the ground too and begins the painful process of identifying and treating his injuries.

"Are you okay?" Lance asks quietly, his gaze fixed on his hostages but his voice filled with concern.

Shiro nods slowly even though Lance can't see him. "Yeah, I'll—I'll be okay. Thanks to you."

Lance doesn't respond to that, and just as Shiro's about to ask him if he's all right he addresses Pidge and Keith.

"I understand your reluctance. After everything you've seen and been told, I understand why you believe it," Lance starts, his tone softer. "I've lost… almost everyone I've ever cared about, and if someone told me that my family are still out there somewhere, a prisoner for all these years, I'd also tell ‘em to get fucked. But beneath that indignation I wouldn't be able to quash the minuscule sliver of hope because what if… _what if…_ "

Keith's face scrunches with a pained grimace and Pidge's head bows, her shoulders curling in defensively. They're hurting. Shiro knows just how crushing ‘what if's can be. He knows how upsetting and damaging holding out hope can be.

"Do you want to see Matt again?"

They both narrow their eyes at Lance like he's stupid, tensing with anger.

"We _can't_ because he—"

"Just answer the goddamn question," Lance interrupts Keith.

Pidge glances at Keith uncertainly, sadness breaking through the anger as she considers the question and quietly says, "I would give anything to see him again."

"Then all you have to give me is a few days," Lance implores.

The silence that follows hangs thick and heavy in the air between them, between exerted, panting breaths. Looking up from haphazardly wrapping the gash on his arm, Shiro watches Pidge and Keith as they consider Lance's offer. He notices Pidge's acknowledgement of Lance's logic and a small, desperate flare of hope in Keith's eyes. Yet they remain quiet because a concession is missing.

Shiro thinks about it from their point of view and recognises the suspicious gap in Lance's offer. As genuine as Lance is in his proposal to find Matt, he's also an incredibly skilled liar, and to Pidge and Keith, they can't be sure he's telling the truth. They can't read Lance like Shiro can, and even Shiro finds it challenging at times. This could merely be a ploy, a means of escape.

"If we don't find Matt with Lance's lead, with this mission, I'll willingly put my life in your hands," Shiro assures.

It sounds like surrender, like suicide, but no matter how hopeless it all seems, how the odds are stacked against him, Shiro doesn't want to give up. For a moment there, seeing Keith and registering how broken and lost he's become, Shiro felt responsible, felt like after all the pain he'd caused his friends and family, that maybe he did deserve to die. Then he heard Lance's voice and remembered that he has someone who believes in him, who is risking everything to fight for him. For that, and for the bone-deep affection and soul-soaring adoration Shiro feels for him, Shiro trusts Lance. Trusts Lance with his life. Will contentedly place his beating heart in Lance's skilful hands without hesitation.

Lance flinches but doesn't move. Shiro can almost hear his instant refusal of _, no, abso-fucking-lutely not._ But he doesn't say anything.

For all Keith denies his familial connection with Shiro, a look of satisfaction passes over his features.

_"If there's one thing we can always rely on you for, Shiro, it's your interminable honour."_

_"And you, little brother, your infinite stubbornness."_

Shiro would smile fondly at the freshly regained memory of brotherly ribbing if not for the situation.

"Fine," Keith finally allows, if still somewhat reluctant.

Pidge stares for a long time, and they patiently await her response. Her eyes flicker between them, coming to land on Lance, scrutinising and calculating.

"Two conditions," Pidge negotiates, holding up two fingers. "Condition numero uno, you're going to allow me to place trackers on you – personal ones that aren't connected to the Agency's systems – since I can't trust you not to hide away using Hunk's cloaking tech. And condition the second, we are going to accompany you on this mission."

The tension slowly dissipates from Lance's form, and he nods, holstering his weapon. "I guess that's fair. We have a deal."

"I swear to God, Lance," Keith grumbles as he rises to his feet. "If you're bullshiting this whole thing to get away…"

"I know it's not the same but Matt was my friend too, I'd never use him like that," Lance responds with uncharacteristic sincerity and gravity. Then, he snorts a laugh. "Besides, I wouldn't have fuckin' called you here, and I'd totally be able to come up with a better way to escape."

Keith huffs a disbelieving noise, sounding like he absolutely wants to contest that point before remembering himself. And for a moment it's almost like old times when they'd all hang out as one big, dysfunctional but happy, family. Lance and Keith snarking and snapping at each other as usual and Pidge rolling her eyes in the background, staring into a distant point she probably believes to be a camera like she's on The Office.

Pidge and Keith stand up, dusting off their hands and backsides, and Shiro does the same, not caring about the dirt he's covered in, there's just too much of it. He's managed to bandage the gash on his forearm, but there's not much he can do with everything else, except rest.

"Well, we better get moving before someone discovers this mess," Pidge comments, making her way over to the elevators. "Follow me, we'll get those trackers in you."

Lance grimaces and murmurs, " _In_ me."

Shiro follows, agreeing with the sentiment. After sitting and relaxing a moment, Shiro knows his injuries aren't as severe as he'd feared, movement pain reduced to an intense ache. Aside from the shallow gash, mostly a lot of scratches and bruising. Nothing to fret about. Nevertheless, Lance is eyeing him with concern, even if he's trying to be subtle about it.

"I know you have an angsty flare for the dramatic but did you have to blow a hole in the floor," Lance comments as they step into the elevator, Shiro and Lance on one side and Pidge and Keith on the other, keeping their distance.

"I don't want to hear that from you, mister I-blew-up-half-of-Phuket," Keith says. "And it was Pidge's plan, Pidge's explosives."

" _Of course it was_ ," Hunk mumbles in Shiro's ear.

Pidge shrugs unapologetically. "Government has more than enough to pay for it. I'll discreetly transfer funds to cover it."

"I didn't _mean_ to blow up half of Phuket," Lance grumbles, ignoring the rest of the conversation. "Phuket just… got in the way."

Keith frowns at him and stares silently, conveying his thoughts of Lance's idiocy without the use of a single word. Lance rolls his eyes and bristles inaudibly, Shiro can only hear a few words of various childish insults like _mullet_ and _blockhead_ and _dumbass_. Even at odds, even after pointing guns at each other with indisputable resolve to pull the trigger, Lance and Keith squabble like a couple of rivalling teenagers. Although, Shiro notices a soft edge of natural comfort between them that hadn't been there all those years ago.

The elevator goes down two levels, and Shiro's eyes are immediately drawn to the bright red Ferrari standing out and sitting pretty amongst the mundane silver and grey everyman's cars. Shiro remembers when Keith first bought it, he was so proud of himself, almost as discernibly in love with the car as he was in love with Matt.

_"Are you trying to make me jealous?" Matt whined playfully. "I already agreed to marry you, and I'm not sure how much more I can offer after that. I don't think I can compete…"_

_Keith peeled his gaze away from the shining new car to look at Matt, and a guilty flush washed over his wide-eyed face. "What? No—You don't have to compete—Matt, you—"_

_Matt grinned and entangled himself with Keith. "I'm only teasing. You're way too adorable."_

_Lance, thankfully, chose that gooey romantic moment to saunter over and make a throaty, disgusted sound. "Jesus, Keith… You know what, this actually makes total sense and completely suits you. It's about time you bought yourself an overcompensating red penis of a car," Lance mocked, tilting his head to regard the curvature and contours of the car's body. "Ribbed for his pleasure."_

Shiro laughs, loud and hearty, the movement aching through his chest but he can't help himself. He almost walks into Lance's back as they all stop walking to look at him. Keith glaring, Pidge raising a single eyebrow, and Lance's eyes flickering over him with concern.

"Sorry," Shiro says, coughing awkwardly. "The overcompensating red penis car brought back memories."

Lance's eyes shine with amusement, his lips curving into a light-hearted smile and Shiro follows the movement carefully. It's the same smile he'd given Shiro back then, right before stepping into his personal space with habitual ease and winding his arms around Shiro's waist. He can see Lance's brilliant blue eyes gazing up at him, full of adoration and glowing with warm flame as he draws closer and closer.

"—remembering?"

Pidge's voice draws him from his reverie, and he merely blinks at her because he has no idea what she asked even though she's tilting her head expectantly. After a beat, Lance responds for him.

"It seems like it's a… process. His memories seem to be walled off in fragments in order not to overwhelm the mind in regaining them all at once and, instead, opening the oldest gates first and slowly building to the moment of Deactivation…" Lance trails off, his brows furrowing as he scrutinises Shiro. "But that memory was…" he murmurs in quiet awe, his eyes widen with momentary fear before he turns on his heel and stalks away, mumbling, "At least that's what Hunk says."

"Right," Pidge nods. "I know that. But I still expected the process to be faster. It's been, what, twenty-four hours?"

"If you want to talk logistics about that fucking Deactivation, call Hunk," Lance calls out irritably. "Let's get this fuckin' tracker shit done and go."

Pudge huffs in exasperation and follows after him. Shiro just stands there, staring after Lance. ‘ _That memory was’ what?_ He wants to ask. Not that he particularly needs to, judging by Lance's reaction and their natural closeness in the memory, it's a much more recent memory then he's yet experienced. He merely, selfishly wants Lance to tell him.

There's a none-too-gentle nudge at his shoulder, and Shiro glances back to see Keith's dark eyes narrowed on him.

"I'm not going anywhere, Keith," Shiro sighs, knowing his overly-suspicious brother all too well. "I made a promise. We're going to get Matt back."

Keith doesn't say anything, merely nudging him harder in the shoulder. Shiro grunts at the force of it but moves forward at the silent command, making his way over to Pidge and Lance.

Pidge is holding up what looks like a futuristic laser gun and aiming it at Lance's forearm. His body goes rigid as the machine expels a quiet whir of mechanical sound. As Pidge pulls it away from Lance's arm, he gingerly massages the area.

It says a lot about his trust in Pidge that Lance offers this part of their agreement without question. But, more than his friendship with her, it's logical. If Pidge and Keith had wanted to involve the Altea Agency they already would have. But, to them, this situation is personal, and the Agency doesn't approve of vendettas. With her technical expertise, Pidge will keep this off their radar effortlessly. She's their best and the youngest ever head of the tech department.

Pidge turns to Shiro, eyebrows raised and hand extended. Shiro offers his arm and braces himself, flinching minorly as Pidge's instrument implants a microscopic tracker in his arm. The pain is sharp but barely lasts more than a second.

Shiro merely flexes his arm, unable to rub away the lingering ache with his prosthetic. When he glances up, he notices that Pidge is staring at precisely that. He'd feel self-conscious about the ineffective addition to his person if not for the analytical, considering expression scrunching up her small nose. It's the same look she gets when she's sizing up one of her complicated technological experiments.

"If you're going to be coming on this mission, I don't want you coming like that," Pidge surmises bluntly, and as Shiro glances down at the prosthetic, he can't help but agree. Then, she grimaces, like she's going to regret whatever decision she's come to. "I've got your bionic arm, I'll need to reattach it before we go ahead."

"You can do that?" Shiro questions, surprised. Though, he probably shouldn't be.

Pidge scoffs. "Pft. Anything my brother can do I can do better."

"Except fuck Keith," Lance comments offhandedly. He raises his hands innocently as Keith shoots him a contemptuous glare. "Sorry, dude. Habit. I really don't know what's insensitive or not anymore."

"Give me a strap-on and I'll give him a run for his money," Pidge barrels on despite Lance's apology, putting the tracker instrument back in its case.

" _Fuck sakes_ , I forgot how you two compete for who can be the most depraved." Keith's glower becomes a disturbed grimace as Lance barks out a delighted laugh and he reaches into his pocket to retrieve his key. "I'm leaving."

"I'm surprised you even know how to use ‘depraved’ in a sentence."

Keith sneers back at Lance before sliding into the driver's seat of the Ferrari. The engine roars to life and makes the air around it wobble with the power of it as he revs the engine, signally for Pidge. She rolls her eyes and slowly makes her way around to the passenger side door.

"We'll be around at Hunk's in the morning. Get an early night, it'll be a hectic day. And I expect breakfast!"

As soon as she closes the car door, Keith surges out of the parking space and over to the winding ramp of the parking garage in a blur of red. Shiro doesn't even question how they know they're hiding out at Hunk's, even though Keith couldn't find them there, Pidge's too clever not to know they're there anyway.

Without a word, Lance walks over to the elevator and presses the button to call it. Despite his jokes and laughter, there's something more relaxed in the set of his broad shoulders now that Keith and Pidge are gone. There's worry lining his brow though, his gaze distant with contemplation. Shiro leaves him to it, following him to the car silently.

Shiro stares out the window as they wind speedily down the ramp; Lance, almost as aggressive a driver as Keith. There's something itching in the back of his mind, thoughts drawing together, side by side, parallels that make sense of some of the things that have been alluding him. Conversations and concepts that made no sense finally starting to clear into a recognisable image.

_"You see why he'd think you were covering for Shiro though… Put yourself in his shoes."_

_"I'm basically there right now, only… You know."_

Shiro recalls the way Keith and Matt had looked at each other in the newly acquired memory, the way they'd held each other, the way they'd smiled at each other. Even for those few seconds Shiro remembers watching them, he could see how in love they were, how utterly and irrefutably devoted they were. And then Keith had lost Matt; lost the love of his life, lost his soulmate. Whether or not Matt still lives, in Keith's mind, for four whole years, he’s been dead. The pain of the loss remains, gut-wrenching and palpable.

Lance too had lost Shiro. And then he… He compared that loss to Keith's loss.

Had he truly loved Shiro that much? Had they been so devoted to each other? Shiro can feel the connection between them, the gentle tug of his heart when he thinks about Lance or looks at Lance. He knows that what he feels breaches simple friendship and delves into something passionate and affectionate and intense. But how? Why?

The sun is about to descend below the horizon as they drive back to Hunk's and as Shiro watches it disappear, leaving a bright canvas of orange and pink in its wake, he decides he needs to know. With his life at risk, with Lance's life at risk, he needs to know what they were and how they came to be. Even if he can't remember, even if it's tarnished with betrayal and anguish, even if it hurts. He has to know.

Because he's been unambiguously staring for far too long, Lance glances over at him. The vast, complex blues of Lance's eyes are like two immense oceans of distance between them. It makes Shiro ache all over, makes him want to futilely reach out as if his arms alone could span the space of those oceans and close the gap between them. But it'll take more than that, he knows. He'll have to work for it, strive for it.

He'll do it. He'll do anything to bridge those oceans.

 

* * *

 

**18:22 – September 28th, 2017**

Setting the pizza boxes down on the table, Lance slumps down into one of Hunk's comfortable dining chairs. They're eclectic chairs, all different shapes and makes; Pidge's idea, he's sure. This one is Lance's favourite, violet painted frame with a firm black, white and grey tartan cushion. He's always had a weakness for firm things; firm comfort is supportive, holding your weight and the press of your body with the exact resistance required.

Shiro enters the kitchen, and Lance's gaze flickers up to his muscular form like his eyes are magnetised because he can't actually stop himself, he's helpless and weak. To compensate for this, Lance focuses on getting a piece of pizza while Shiro silently pulls out a chair across from Lance and sits down, all graceful, measured movements that come so naturally to him. It's mesmerising to watch Shiro move. Lance hates it.

Fortunately, Hunk chooses that moment to drag himself away from his computer system and distract Lance with his sullen expression. Because, of course, Hunk had heard the entire resolution with Pidge and Keith through Lance and Shiro's microphones, and knows their plan.

"It'll be fine, Hunk," Lance consoles around a mouthful of hot, melted cheese and delicious tomato sauce. "It's not like you haven't seen her since."

"Yeah but, I haven't seen her in six months," Hunk mumbles, tearing at his crust distractedly.

Lance has no idea what to say to that because he understands all too well. He knows exactly what it's like to lose a part of yourself under circumstances you've got no control over. It feels like being chained to a post in a desolated expanse while an invisible entity slowly, tauntingly hauls away the one thing you need to escape, to survive, to live. But you can't die, you just stand there and wait hopelessly, the isolation driving you mad, minute by minute.

Lance forces himself not to look at Shiro.

"Wait," Shiro says, sounding confused. "You… and Pidge?"

There's a pause in which Lance can almost hear Hunk calculating the time of Shiro's current memory progress. Lance forces himself not to do the same. Hunk will figure it out. He doesn't need to think about how much Shiro remembers. He doesn't need to know. He doesn't want to know. It's not his problem. It doesn't concern him.

At least, that's what he tells himself.

"Oh, right," Hunk mumbles after figuring out that Shiro's memories don't extend that far yet. Lance doesn't breathe a silent sigh of relief surreptitiously behind another slice of pizza he quickly shoves in his mouth. Certainly not. Why would he?

"Kat—Pidge and I got together a few months before… before… you know, everything," Hunk struggles to explain, nodding at Shiro and tapping his temple. "Matt died… or, didn't."

It's actually heartbreaking, their story. Pidge and Hunk had been flirting and dancing around each other for years as they worked together at the Altea Agency. It was ridiculous how long it took for them to realise but neither of them is particularly bright in the emotional attachment area. It took a lot of nudging from Lance before either made a move.

Then all this shit with the Agency happened, and Pidge lost her brother. Hunk did the best he could, comforted her, consoled her; even through his own loss as he and Matt had been close friends as well. But Pidge was devastated. It wasn't as evident as it was in Keith, but she became slightly manic, obsessively throwing herself into her work.

It hurt to see. Another loss. Another reason to withdraw.

"That… makes a lot of sense," Shiro says, frowning as he considers the idea. "You were always so close and bickered about tech like a married couple. Pidge always held your ideas in such high regard, even as she would tear the concepts to pieces, the fact that she put in any time at all to study them was enough to prove it. And she complained about you _a lot_ , almost to the point that…"

This is when Shiro finally looks up at Hunk whose expression is caught tormentedly between joy and agony. There are tears sheening over Hunk's eyes, even as a smile twinges at the corners of his mouth. Lance squeezes his eyes closed.

"I—Hunk, I'm so sorry," Shiro says quietly. His voice the epitome of soothing and heartfelt, ever supportive and caring. There are a million empty words anyone else would spout, but not Shiro. All Shiro needs is his gentle tone and the firm grip that's undoubtedly on Hunk's shoulder.

"That’s… I'll just get back to—get back to work."

Lance hears Hunk’s seat shift, hears a pizza box lift from the table, and hears Hunk leave the room.

He curses himself. He should have headed off the conversation earlier. Selfishly, he wishes for Hunk's presence as a buffer between him and Shiro, a hindrance to any discussion or line of questioning Shiro may initiate. But he doesn't begrudge Hunk his need to be alone.

"He'll be okay," Lance reassures Shiro placatingly, glancing up to see Shiro still staring at the doorway Hunk disappeared through. He looks as lost as ever, it never fails to break Lance's heart just a little more each time.

"I don't think anything will ever be ‘okay' again."

Shiro says it so softly he's mostly talking to himself. Although Shiro's rarely outwardly fatalistic, he does actually share the same tendency as his brother. Lance's muscles tense as he physically restrains himself from walking around the table and wrapping himself around Shiro. With everything he's been through in the last twenty-four hours – four years, really – Shiro deserves comfort but Lance can't be the one to give it.

Having somehow managed to inhale half a pizza, Lance nods at Shiro and says, "You should eat."

This has the unfortunate consequence of drawing Shiro's attention back to him. Lance lowers his gaze as Shiro starts eating again. He notices the cloth he'd tied around the cut on his hand, now stained deep scarlet, and grimaces. It had happened when he'd hastily jumped down to save Shiro, landing awkwardly on the destroyed car that had dropped with the floor.

Lance rises and habitually walks over to the well-stocked first aid kit under the sink – due to Lance perpetually returning from missions all bloodied and coming to Hunk's house because his own apartment was too cold and desolate. Hissing in unanticipated pain, Lance unwraps the piece of torn cloth, sharp pain stabbing through his palm as the material pulls where it's stuck to his skin with congealed blood. It's worse than he thought, much more painful without adrenaline coursing through his system.

_Fuck._

He glances back and forth between the gash across his palm and the first aid kit. It's going to be awkward, but he supposes it can be done, Shiro does most things with one hand now. Probably not stitching up wounds anymore and he's always been better at that than Lance anyway, but Lance can certainly—

"Do you need help?" Shiro suddenly asks from behind him.

Lance freezes. _Yes, I need help. I need you to fix my hand, Takashi. Just like you fix everything else. I need you to hold me and kiss me and love me and fuck me and never leave me again. I am more of a fragmented mess than your mind after having you and losing you, and I don't think I could lose you again. It would end me. I don't even deserve you, but I can't help myself._

_I need you, Takashi._

"It's nothing, I've got it."

Anyone else would believe those words, spoken with casual confidence and a lazy shrug, but Shiro, he's way too fucking sharp. Shiro sees everything. Shiro can read Lance like a book. Always could. Lance hates it.

Shiro walks around him. "Christ, Lance. That is _not_ 'nothing.' That's your shooting hand, and it'll need—"

"I will have you know, I've trained myself to be ambidextrous, thank you _very_ much. And I already said, I've fucking got it. I'm more than aware of what it needs and am more than capable—"

Shiro snorts. Actually fucking snorts. The _cheek_. "You were always hopeless at suturing. You probably still get all squeamish."

Lance's jaw drops open and he turns to glower at Shiro. Even if after four years and countless stitches it's still true.

"Yeah. Well. _You_ clearly didn't train me well enough."

"Clearly not," Shiro says, smirking now. He pushes into Lance's personal space, and Lance goes to move away but finds himself caught fast by the wrist. "Here, allow me."

Shiro has inserted himself between Lance and the kitchen counter, effectively and kindly blocking Lance's view of his hand and the soon to be needle lacing his skin back together. He should deny Shiro and move away but, even as Shiro's grip on him loosens as he rifles around the first-aid kit for supplies, Lance loses all control of his body. He doesn't _want_ to move. He wants to stay right here, a breath away from collapsing against Shiro's solid back, wrapping his arms around his firm chest, and just holding him.

Lance's vision is filled with Shiro, a reflection of his tumultuous mind.

Lance has watched Shiro's expansive back, touched it, washed it, scratched it, kissed it, bitten it. Lance remembers every contraction and contour of muscle, remembers the sparse freckles and moles, the pimples and dimples. Lance remembers the angle of his shoulder blades and the curve of his spine as it dips into the swell of his firm ass. Lance adores Shiro's back, as with every aspect of him.

"Anaesthetic," Shiro forewarns.

Lance sucks in a deep breath and exhales against Shiro's collar, leaning closer, inch by inch, pulled in by Shiro's inescapable magnetic force field. At least that's what Lance tells himself; it's easier than admitting how weak and exhausted and in love he is. He focuses on Shiro's tied back hair softly tickling at his temple as the syringe bites into his palm.

It takes a lot of effort to fight the instinct to curl his fingers in at the pain, especially with the second injection into another section of flesh. Lance grits his teeth and his head falls forward, forehead flush against the curve of Shiro's deltoid, the muscle flexing against him as Shiro tenses in surprise at the contact. Shiro doesn't move though, doesn't speak, merely continuing with the third and, hopefully, final injection.

Lance focuses on the heat of Shiro's skin and the familiar shift of muscle. Shiro's always been so intrinsically warm, every part of him, from his core and all the way to his extremities.

The pressure of the needle fades, and Lance hears it clunk into the sink as Shiro disposes of it there. His fingers massage Lance's palm, carefully avoiding the wound, but the feeling quickly fades as the anaesthetic gets to work with a dull sensation of pins and needles.

"Alright, I'll clean it now, let me know if there is any pain at all."

Lance huffs a laugh. "You know I will."

He can imagine the fond smile curling Shiro's lips as he says, "Complain McClain."

Lance laughs at the nickname Shiro had awarded him within some of their early training sessions. Or, what Lance likes to think of as their crash course in getting to know each other. Emphasis on the _crash_.

He's okay with this part, can distantly feel the insistent pressure of dabbing and swiping as Shiro cleans the wound. But Lance still doesn't move, even starts to relax against Shiro, lulled by the rhythmic movement of his muscles.

"Alright, stitch time," Shiro informs and Lance really wishes he hadn't, promptly tensing at the mere thought. He can't feel much as his hand rests on the countertop, but there is a slight tug and pull that sets his mind racing, imagining. In his mind's eye, he can see the needle cutting through his flesh, the thread sliding through and pulling tight and grotesque. And repeat.

He wobbles, knees weak as nausea sweeps through him. Reaching out with his free arm, Lance grips onto Shiro's hip to steady himself. He needs to think about something else. _Anything_ else.

"Lance."

The deep rumble of Shiro's voice beneath him ignites sparks through his chest. Lance recalls the last time Shiro had been underneath him with his back pressed to Lance's chest, murmuring his name, moaning and writhing with every thrust. Lance instinctively winds his arm around Shiro's waist and pulls him flush against his chest.

He remembers Shiro's kisses, gentle and eager, or hungry and desperate, each one as meaningful and important as the last. He remembers the way Shiro liked to be held down, even though he would attempt to use his excessive bulk in his favour, Lance would always end up on top with clever manoeuvres and dirty tactics that would leave Shiro grinning. He remembers the soft, broken noises Shiro would make, panting and groaning and whimpering against Lance's mouth or neck or buried in a pillow. He remembers the way Shiro would talk, encouraging and begging and appreciative.

It's all these memories and more than got Lance through four lonely years of longing. It's these memories he recalled with the shower pounding down on him as he fucked his own fist. It's these memories that got him through meaningless nights fucking strangers and fucking… him.

Lance tenses, remembering why he can't have this. Remembering why he doesn't deserve this.

"Lance…" Shiro's says cautiously. "You keep calling me ‘Takashi'."

It still feels so ordinary to do so but, given the state of Shiro's memories, it's unsurprising that he doesn't understand it.

Lance sighs and mumbles against Shiro's back, "I used to, all the time."

Shiro nods, Lance feels it. "We used to be together." He says it so matter-of-factly that there's no denying it, he already knows. Lance knew Shiro would figure it out, he's too intelligent not to notice, especially after this morning.

Too tired to waylay the conversation or talk Shiro into a tangent, Lance lightly shoves his uninjured palm against the solid muscle of Shiro's back and pushes himself away. Shiro whirls and grabs his wrist, firm but not too tight, just enough to stop him but not enough to restrain him. Leaving Lance the opportunity to walk away if he legitimately wants to because that's how Shiro is, conscientious and compassionate and kind.

"Tell me what happened, tell me what I did," Shiro begs, his voice strained with despair. "I need to know how I hurt you. You don't have to forgive me, ever, but I want the chance to make amends. You deserve that, Lance."

Lance's head drops, and he lets out a shaky breath. "No, I don't."

"What?"

"Nothing, I—" Lance falters, glad Shiro hadn't heard that slip. "It doesn't matter, Shiro. It was four years ago, you don't need to make amends." He forces the words out around the searing lump of guilt forming in his throat. Four years and it still hurts. Four years and he still can't face this. "You'll remember, and you'll apologise, and we'll still be fine."

When Lance gazes back up at him with all the casual resolve he can muster, he's met with steely grey eyes filled with determination and reverence, and it's a mistake, it's a huge mistake. Still, Lance swallows hard and holds Shiro's intense gaze.

"Bullshit," Shiro snaps uncharacteristically. "We're far from fine."

"So dramatic," Lance mumbles, waving a hand dismissively and turning to leave, but suddenly Shiro's in his face, frustrated and fuming. And that optional restraint isn't so optional anymore.

"You have no idea what it's like. I can _feel_ it. I can feel _everything_ I felt for you back then, from the day my life as I knew it disappeared and I was left with nothing. My feelings for you never went away. I didn't know what they were but it was _always_ there; four years of bottled up craving and caring and loving a faceless entity that existed only in my mind. I can't contain it anymore, Lance. It's tearing me apart."

"Shiro—"

"It made me crazy, knowing there was someone out there waiting for me but not knowing who it was or how I even knew they existed. I searched and searched. It drove me into the arms and beds of meaningless people," Shiro stutters, hesitates, ducking his head shamefully but not before Lance notices the wetness welling in his stormy eyes. "But I couldn't find you… I _couldn't_ …"

A silent sob trembles through Lance's body before he even realises he's crying. He's never heard Shiro say so many words, so many frantic and distraught words full of such heart-rending sorrow.

"You don't have to—"

"Then I _found_ you," Shiro interrupts, awe lighting his voice. He chuckles wetly. "Or you found me. I always hoped you would, I dreamed about it as I waited and waited, and then you were in front of me; jovial and flippant and formidable. Everything I never knew I needed."

"Shiro, please, _don't_ ," Lance begs.

 _I don't deserve this, I don't deserve this,_ Lance repeats to himself to stop himself from taking Shiro's face between his hands and kissing him until they're both breathless.

"You were entirely erased from my mind but I looked at you, and I could _see_ you. I could _feel_ it, that tug in my chest, the invisible string that connects us, and I was—I was so relieved. Terrified but relieved. And, for the first time in four years, I felt safe and real and _alive_.

"I know you're hurting," Shiro continues, his hand coming to rest tenderly at Lance's neck, thumb trailing the line of his jaw. "And I know I hurt you. But I'm so confused. I feel all of this, and I can imagine and guess as much as I like, but I don't know _why_. And you hide from me, you avoid me, but you also risk everything for me and look at me like I'm all that matters and speak about me like—"

"There's someone else," Lance blurts out, clenching his jaw closed with instant regret as soon as the words are out.

Shiro freezes, grey eyes flickering searchingly over Lance's face. But it's not a lie. When Shiro realises that he deflates, his hand falling from Lance's face and Lance almost chases the feeling of it, wants it back but can't have it.

Doesn't deserve it.

Hates himself.

"Oh."

Shiro's been shot before, he's lost an arm on top of all and sundry injuries he's sustained in his line of his dangerous duty, but Lance doesn't think he's ever seen him so pale, so lost and wounded. The shards of Lance's already broken heart shatter and grind down to dust, to nothing.

"Sorry," Shiro mutters, voice hollow as he backs away and leaves the room.

Lance stares after him, his breathing frenetic and rattling in his chest. He presses his left hand over his mouth hard to suppress the agonised sobs that threaten to leak out. Then he looks down at his right hand, at the five perfectly precise and delicate stitches so carefully knitting his skin back together.

"I don't deserve it," he murmurs to himself.

Lance walks out of the kitchen, past Hunk who's calling frantically after him, and out of the house. He sprints down the street, past houses and businesses and people who stare at him like he's crazy. He wishes he were crazy, better than being the piece of shit he actually is.

A blur of motion leaves him in a nondescript alleyway filled with trash cans and dumpsters. Lance screams until he runs out of breath; until his throat aches and his lungs protest. He curls his fingers into the perfect stitches, tearing the numbed skin further, ruining them just like he ruins everything else, and punches one of the dumpsters. Over and over, leaving his knuckles bleeding and the metal dented.

When whatever fumes he's running on finally deplete, Lance slumps against a cold brick wall and focuses on the physical pain. But even all that pain cannot block out pure torment raging chaotically through his demolished heart.

Approaching footsteps draw Lance's attention, rapid and resolute in their pace because, of course, he left Hunk's without the scrambler, and it's incredibly poetic that the Agency choose now to find him. It makes sense though, this is his life, this is the way it's always been. Lance just closes his eyes and waits for whatever death or torture awaits him. Because that, at least, he does deserve.

When the footsteps stop before him, and nothing comes, Lance frowns and squints up to see Keith raising a single eyebrow at him. Lance sighs because this is even more poetic and somehow much, much worse, even though Keith has no plan to murder him despite the way he often looks at Lance.

"Are you okay?" Keith asks, observing Lance's torn up hands with a worried frown.

"Peachy."

Keith rolls his eyes and offers Lance his hand to help him upright. "You know, I've never met anyone quite as masochistic as you, Lance. And in our line of work that says a lot."

"That's just because you can't meet yourself."

Lance takes Keith's hand and stands but instantly sways on shaky legs. Keith's arm immediately wraps around his waist to steady and support Lance's weight, slotting him comfortably along his leanly muscled body.

"No need to swoon, Princess."

"Why are you here?" Lance questions, ignoring Keith's playful comment.

"Hunk was worried about you," Keith says, shrugging with poorly feigned nonchalance as he helps Lance walk down the alleyway. "Pidge located your tracker."

"Careful, Mullet. One might think you actually care."

Keith sighs, setting Lance carefully in the passenger seat of his car. "You know I do, Lance." He closes the door with a firm thump, and Lance relaxes down into the familiar leather seat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, friends *offers tissue box*
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your patience and your kind words that offer so much encouragement as I provide all this pain for you ^_^ I seriously appreciate it more than you'll ever know. Shoutout to choutarouootori, the real MVP!


	7. With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pure flashback chapter because whenever I write fluff it gets completely out of hand, I have no self-control =/

_Well I've been on fire, dreaming of you_  
_Tell me you don't_  
_It feels like you do_  
~ I’m With You – Vance Joy

**09:22 – June 28 th 2012**

Shiro stares down the barrel at his target, breathing steadily and tightening his grip on the handgun until the slight tremor in his flesh hand is diminished. When his stance is satisfactory, Shiro exhales slowly and squeezes the trigger. Once, twice, three times. Shiro feels himself wincing, his eyelids fluttering at every explosive sound and his muscles in his arm spasming in response to the kickback.

Irritation prickles over his skin like goosebumps and, with far less control, Shiro empties the rest of the clip into the target, each bullet as wayward as the initial three. He slams the gun on the table, grips the edge and bows his head, inhaling deep breaths through his nose to quell the simmering frustration.

A scuffing sound alerts Shiro to a presence behind him. His pulse charges off, flooding him with adrenaline, and in one swift movement he picks up the handgun and aims at the intruder. Bright blue eyes, eyebrows raised with amusement and one side of a mouth curved into a smirk; Shiro lowers his gun immediately at the sight of Lance.

“You know this shooting range is a public space, right?” Lance comments with a mischievous head tilt. “I mean, not _public_ public, but public within the Agency, which means you probably shouldn’t threaten to shoot everyone who wanders in. Also, you’re outta ammo.”

Shiro sighs, putting the gun down and rubbing at his forehead. “Sorry.”

Lance frowns, a concerned crease forming between his eyebrows, but he doesn’t ask Shiro if he’s okay or what’s wrong; instead, he says, “Will you come somewhere with me?”

Surprised by the question, Shiro glances up to see an utterly genuine expression on Lance’s face, his broad shoulders drawn in, rigid and nervous.

It’s been over a week since Shiro has seen Lance, since that mess after Lance’s first mission at Get Forked. The mission itself had been incredibly smooth upon review, despite Shiro’s panic at the time. Allura was impressed and, as a result, Lance had been sent out on a couple other smaller missions without Shiro’s guidance. Tests.

The mess had occurred when Shiro had taken advantage of the situation to act on his attraction to Lance. Shiro had compromised the harmonious working relationship they’d developed and has been weighed down by the remorse and shame. He’s been uncertain how to approach the situation, feeling unbearably awkward – a feeling he’s never experienced before – at the mere thought of facing Lance again.

But here he is, and the answer to his question, far too truthfully, would be, _I’d go anywhere with you, Lance._

“I, um,” Shiro mumbles, trying for rationality. “Sorry, I have work to do with some new recruits, lots of paperwork and—”

“Matt said you’d say that, mumbled somethin’ ‘bout ‘idiot chained to his desk’ and already pardoned you for the rest of the day,” Lance says. Hidden behind a forced smile, Shiro can see Lance’s usually brilliant energy wilting at the negative response, and it makes Shiro’s heart clench painfully.

“Okay, sure, I’ll come.”

He agrees quickly and, with his back to Lance to collect his gun and dispose of his target sheet at the press of a button, grimaces at how pathetically eager he sounds. How pathetically eager he _is_.

Despite avoiding Lance for fear of this exact discomfort between them, Shiro misses him immensely. Misses his bright smiles and his amusingly careless but witty way with words. Misses the pointless arguments about mission reviews – a guide of what not to do – where Lance enjoys playing devil’s advocate against all sense and logic simply for the fun of it. Misses brainstorming ideas and characters and strategies for simulated missions. Misses his warm presence and the way he so effortlessly makes Shiro feel lighter, happier.

It’s only been a week, and Shiro misses Lance more than he can ever remember missing anyone.

As Shiro puts away his handgun, goggles and extra ammunition, he notices how pleased Lance seems, and the lingering tension. It’s an odd combination, especially on Lance.

They remain silent as Lance leads Shiro to the elevator and signs off on a standard black Agency sedan from the underground garage. Shiro keeps careful watch him, and Lance doesn’t even seem to notice, let alone make his usual droll comment about babysitting or being an overbearing patriarch. Instead, Lance concentrates all his effort on what he’s doing, the constant tension squaring his shoulders and more on edge than Shiro has ever seen him.

“Where are we going?” Shiro asks, desperately uncomfortable in the silence Lance is uncharacteristically leaving them in.

“Somewhere.”

Shiro opens his mouth to comment on his vagueness or make a playful command for Lance to tell him, ‘as your superior, you need to tell me.’ Then Shiro remembers what Lance had said that night.

_You don’t trust me. You don’t believe in me._

But he does, Shiro trusts Lance, would trust him with his life and believes that he’s capable of doing anything. Lance epitomises ‘if there’s a will, there’s a way.’ Now he has to prove it, he wants to show Lance just how highly he regards him. Actions speak louder then words.

“Sounds ominous,” Shiro finally says, keeping his tone light.

There is so much he wants to ask, to know, to tell, but Lance’s silence leaves him following suit; something in the back of his mind telling him it’s not the time. Not yet. So Shiro relaxes back into his seat as much as he can as Lance drives, hoping the calm he’s attempting to project will soothe Lance, even marginally.

It’s been a good twenty minutes when Lance pulls into a driveway in the outer suburbs of the city. There’s a sign near the entrance that reads ‘Water Lily Leisure Care Centre’ and Shiro frowns, knowing Lance has no elderly family to speak of, no great uncles or godparents or grandparents. His file doesn’t actually relate any information on his family, which he’d always thought odd since there are no secrets the Agency doesn’t have access to. Then Shiro remembers rivulets of water flowing down the purple, blue and black ink tattooed onto Lance’s dark skin, the water lily, and knows this place is important.

Pulling into the small visitor’s parking lot, Shiro glances at Lance and notices he’s so tense it’s almost as if he’s holding his breath, every muscle contracting as if in preparation for an assault.

“Lance?” Shiro asks, allowing his concern to filter through his voice.

Lance doesn’t respond, merely vacates the car and makes his way to the entrance. Shiro inhales a deep breath and lets it out slowly, bolstering himself for whatever is to come. Shiro exits the vehicle and hurries to catch up with Lance, who is striding forward purposefully.

At the front desk, a short, chubby man with a friendly face greets them with a smile, his gaze locking onto Lance.

“Lance, right on time as always,” the man says, glancing at his watch. Shiro wants to scoff, in his experience Lance is never on time. “Wonderful to see you, as always. You’re looking very healthy.”

The comment would be odd from almost anyone else, but somehow suits the kind, amiable nature of the man. Instead of seeming creepy he gives the impression of truly caring about Lance’s wellbeing. Lance, in turn, grins broadly and shakes the man’s hand, relaxing instantly.

“Henry, good to see you,” Lance says, his voice warm and sincere, a rare occurrence. “How is he today?”

“He’s doing very well, out in the gardens enjoying the sunshine.”

“It’s a beautiful day, should try get some sun yourself.”

Henry chuckles. “I’ll try to do that, lad. On your way then, he’s eager to see you, and your… friend?”

Shiro feels apprehension quicken his heart rate at not quite knowing where he is or why he’s here, especially in the face of such a loaded question. The implication clear, this man knows Lance so well that there’s the possibility that if Lance brings someone, a male someone, he could be more than a friend. Not that the confirmation surprises Shiro. There’s _a lot_ of flirting. Real flirting.

“Uh, yeah. Henry, meet Shiro. Shiro, Henry,” Lance introduces, waving a hand between them and doing nothing to disclaim the false insinuation.

Being a secret agent, and therefore no stranger to improvisation, Shiro smiles and shakes Henry’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Henry. I hear only the best things about your care.”

“Ah, well, Mr McClain is far too kind,” Henry dismisses with a wave of his hand, but his cheeks darken proudly nevertheless. “Anyway, he’s down by the pond, you better go before he comes looking for you and we both get in trouble.”

With a cheerful chuckle, Lance says farewell to Henry and makes his way confidently down the nearest corridor, Shiro keeping in step beside him.

Having seen Lance at work, manipulating and conning his way into many different situations, Shiro recognises, once more, the genuinely charismatic foundation that his abilities stem from. Every moment of that conversation was authentic, and that’s how he does it, that’s how he’s so convincing. He takes all of that genuine contact with people and transfers it, manipulating any given situation. When he wants to. When he needs to.

As soon as he’s out of visual range of Henry, the tension returns to Lance’s form, and Shiro immediately knows not to talk. To simply be patient. Imminently Shiro will learn who ‘he’ is and what they’re doing here.

Shiro grows anxious as they grow closer to their goal, stepping outside into a glorious, manicured garden. It stretches over many unforeseeable acres, the trees old and tall, the grass expansive, green and firm underfoot. There’s a centrepiece pond in the middle, complete with warbling ducks, lily pads and vivid purple and blue water lilies. The whole thing looks like Monet’s gardens, only more kempt, and with people rolling around in wheelchairs and with walking frames.

This is clearly important to Lance, and Lance is deeming him important enough and trusting him with a secret aspect of his life. It sits heavily over Shiro’s shoulders, but for Lance he’ll gladly bear it.

As Shiro follows Lance down to the pond his gaze flickers from person to person, assessing, seeking some sort of resemblance. And then he sees—then Shiro freezes in his tracks because, down by the pond, in the direction they’re heading, he sees someone he recognises, only… it can’t possibly be…

“Marco,” Shiro murmurs so quietly he’s unsure whether his mouth moved to form the word or if he simply said it in his head.

First Lieutenant Hernandez, Marco; honourable discharge from service after suffering severe spinal injuries during a firefight in a standard escort mission gone awry. The sole survivor of a mission Shiro’s team had been sent in to clean up after. A cleanup mission that they weren’t prepared for, that cost all of his teammate’s lives; the agony of losing his arm a fraction of the pain of watching them die. Kerberos. If Shiro closes his eyes he can still feel the punishing desert wind lash at his skin.

All the air rushes out of him, and he feels faint as everything clicks into place and makes complete sense. And also absolutely zero sense.

“Takashi,” Lance says, gentle and tentative. Shiro barely realises that it’s the first time Lance has spoken his given name, the word sounds so natural formed by Lance’s mouth.

Shiro glances at him and sees it immediately, sees Macro in the shape of Lance’s eyes, though not the colour, in the waves of his thick brown hair and the long line of his jaw. Brothers, undoubtedly, far too similar to be anything else.

His first instinct is suspicion, a decade of training screaming ‘it’s a trap!’ but then he recognises the distress in Lance’s eyes. The fear. The raw hope begging, ‘please don’t leave me.’ Suspicion instantly suppressed – because this is _Lance_ – Shiro strides forward, his gaze set on Marco.

At his approach a warm smile curls at the corner of Marco’s mouth – expecting his brother, expecting Lance – but as his head turns his brown eyes widen and his mouth drops open in silent surprise.

“Lieutenant,” Shiro salutes as he comes to a halt before Marco’s wheelchair.

Marco’s mouth opens and closes like a dying fish for a few moments before he straightens and gives Shiro a perfect salute, shouting, “Captain!”

“At ease, soldier,” Shiro says, smiling as he relaxes and extends a hand. “Good to see you, Marco.”

“I… Yeah, you too, Shiro,” Marco breathes, his handshake weaker than Shiro remembers. “How is this even…? How are you even here right now? Not that I’m complaining but… how?”

In lieu of answering, Shiro glances over at a sheepish looking Lance. Marco follows Shiro’s gaze, and he frowns at his brother.

“Lance? How did you—?” Marco questions, perplexed gaze shifting between Shiro and Lance. Then his eyes widen with realisation, and his tone intensifies with accusation. “What did you do?”

Lance looks terrified, his mouth falling silently open as words fail him and his head dropping with shame. Because, as is presently being confirmed by his reluctance to respond, the real answer is along the lines of: ‘sifted through the criminal underbelly, located a high-up Altea Agent, manipulated a situation to get recruited to find Shirogane Takashi and train under him.’

Shiro had known from that very first meeting that Lance was cunning and in that interrogation room for a reason and this, right here, is why.

“I was trying to track you down,” Shiro says before Marco can ask again, his expression darkening at Lance with every second of silence. He looks up at Shiro in askance. “When I saw that you were here I didn’t want to impose on any therapy or progress you’d been making so I wanted to check in with Lance first, to ask about you, to see if I could visit.”

Marco’s brow furrows and his eyes narrow with suspicion. “That’s not possible. Lance got his name legally changed after… There should be no accessible record of us being related.”

Shiro smiles. “I’ve retired from action in a very cushy, high-ranked administration role for the Military, it allows me a… certain level of access.”

“Is this true?” Marco asks Lance hesitantly.

Lance is staring at Shiro, a dumbfounded expression on his face and completely zoned out. With Shiro coming up with a believable lie to quell Marco’s trepidation, Lance should be smoothly rolling with it, especially with his skill set. After Marco has to say his name twice, Lance finally shakes himself of his daze and mutters an unconvincing affirmative. Marco heaves a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose, the exasperation drooping his shoulders citing that he’s clearly well accustomed to Lance’s trouble seeking ways.

“If Shiro’s lying to me then it’s clearly something confidential that I can’t know about,” Macro summarises perceptively. He would have made a great Agent. “That also means it’s dangerous. But, so long as it’s you, Shiro, I trust you’ll keep him safe.”

“I will.”

Shiro says it with far more conviction and sentiment than he wanted to convey aloud, and Marco notices, tilting his head to regard him. Shiro cares too much for Marco to hide his emotions, they survived hell together, and Shiro owes him this, at the very least. Especially considering it’s in regards to Shiro’s feelings for his brother; the brother Marco practically raised and considers his sole responsibility, if Shiro remembers correctly.

Surprise widens Marco’s eyes and a small smile curls at the corner of his mouth for a moment. Marco glances over at a perplexed looking Lance and shakes his head with amusement.

“Figures,” he mutters.

“What?” Lance asks, his nose crinkling slightly with mounting confusion. It’s so strange to see him on the back foot for once, always so cocky and self-assured, even if he’s bullshitting his way through. Family has that effect.

Marco chuckles. “Are you actually going to give your brother a hug or just stand there gawking?”

Lance rolls his eyes and, with feigned reluctance, walks over to embrace his brother. Shiro smiles watching them, reminded of when he tries to hug Keith who, of course, would never initiate such brotherly affection. Though Lance is far less rigid and awkward, his fingers gripping into the back of Marco’s cardigan fiercely.

“All right, so tell me how and when it is you two came to be in contact,” Marco prompts as they wander over to a bench by the pond for Lance and Shiro to sit on, Marco cosying into his wheelchair to get comfortable for the long conversation ahead.

“Well…”

Shiro and Lance weave around information they can’t give concerning the Altea Agency and their actual occupation there. But, like the experts they are, they manage to keep a lot of harmless truths without feeling too guilty about it.

Family is the difficult part about being a secret agent. Fortunately for Lance, as a military man, Marco understands the need for discretion and confidentiality. And, fortunately for Shiro, a lot of his family are involved in his secrets. As for his parents, they’re very simple people who don’t question his iron-clad cover story; even if it hurts to keep them in the dark, he knows, ultimately, it’s for their protection.

After a couple of hours laughing at Lance’s antics as an ‘administrative trainee,’ and then Marco sharing some equally amusing stories of Lance as a kid, and Lance being “ganged up on and done with their shit,” Henry comes out to save him, announcing that Marco has a group session before lunch.

“You better come visit again soon or I’ll kick your ass,” Marco threatens in place of a farewell. Then, over his shoulder as Henry wheel’s him up the hill, he adds, “And bring Shiro with you!”

Shiro chuckles, watching him go, bantering lightly with Henry who’s berating him.

And then they’re alone. Shiro and Lance, all alone, and all of the questions Shiro has managed to keep at bay come scrambling back into his mind. Yet, he finds he doesn’t know what to say or where to start. Shiro’s mouth falls open silently, once, twice. Then, as soon as he settles on a question, the sound humming in his throat ready to be voiced, Lance walks away.

The movement isn’t an escape, Lance casually strolls down to the short pier by the pond and settles himself at the edge, his legs comfortably bent towards his chest and arms cradling them. Shiro follows, as he’s clearly supposed to, and lowers himself down beside Lance. He waits quietly, knowing Lance wants to talk.

“Don’t know where to start,” Lance eventually confesses with a sigh. Shiro opens his mouth when Lance sharply interrupts. “If you say ‘at the beginning’ I’ll hit you.”

Shiro can feel the knowing scowl aimed at him but continues to look out at the gently rocking water, sunshine glinting off the surface almost blinding him. His purposely cliché sayings were the only silliness Shiro really has over Lance’s broad sense of humour, he knows how much it riles Lance and intentionally wanted to say it to ease some of the tension. And Lance immediately knew Shiro would. It feels nice, knowing each other to that extent.

Shiro smirks. “You can certainly _try_ to hit me.”

“Marco told me about Kerberos,” Lance starts, barrelling in as he does almost everything. Shiro’s stomach plummets with the familiar weight of dread the name evokes. “All of it: the dodgy intel, ambush, death and injuries, elite squad swooping in to save the day and promptly being cut down. Told me how he survived. Told me what you did…” Lance’s voice fades away, and he scrubs a hand down his face. “I fluctuated between believing it was utter bullshit and thinking you were some kind of superhero. I was… obsessed.”

Shiro shifts, dropping his head and folding his crossed legs a little tighter with sudden discomfort. He doesn’t like remembering it or talking about it, or people thinking he’s a ‘hero’ without really knowing what happened. But if Marco told Lance, then Lance _does_ know. Shiro can’t work out whether it’s better or worse than the superficial hero worship he gets at the Agency.

“Asked Marco so many questions ‘bout you, he must’ve gotten utterly fuckin’ sick of me through his recovery,” Lance continues, voice steady in story-telling mode. “But I _had_ to know—I had to know if you were real, if you were legit. So I went lookin’, and it took some time – lot of time – but, eventually…”

“You ended up face-to-face with me in an interrogation room,” Shiro finishes.

Lance nods. “And then you were all… you. I wanted to know you, see past all the mysterious secret-agent crap. Wanted to know whether you really were as great as Marco made you out to be. To know if you were human, and cared, and saved my brother through sheer honourable grit or if he was simply one of countless damsels in distress you carried out of burnin’ buildings on the regular.”

Swallowing hard, Shiro stares down at his painfully tight fists in his lap.

“And?” Shiro asks, a slight tremor in his voice, uncertain he wants the answer. Lance’s opinion of him means… everything. “What’s the consensus?”

In his periphery, Shiro can see Lance glance up at him, incredulity crinkling his brow.

“You’re supposed to be the perception master, and you think that I could possibly think badly of you? _Some_ perception master.” Lance snorts a laugh, shaking his head as a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re possibly the most human person I’ve ever met; humble and hard-working, selflessly putting everyone you care about before yourself. Saved my brother, the only family I have—shit, you lost your arm and still you—you managed to get him outta a combat zone when he was nothin’ but dead weight. Shiro, you’re—you’re _incredible_. Superheroes got _nothing_ on you. You’re…”

Lance seems to wind down from his frantic speech, energy dispersing all at once and leaving him slouching wearily. Lance inhales, broad shoulders straightening and Shiro can’t help but look at him. His dark blue eyes are intense and spellbinding.

“You’re my hero, Takashi. Always have been.”

It’s a word he’s heard spoken about him hundreds of times, a word he’s never felt deserving of, a word he dismissed and internally scoffed at, a word he never considered correlating with himself. Until now. The word rolls off Lance’s tongue and it feels _right_. Because Lance _knows_ and he says it with such pure intent.

Suddenly, Shiro nonsensically wishes he could have done more, brought Marco back in one piece for this sweet, sincere, beautiful man. Wishes he could have been better. He bows his head shamefully.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

There’s a considering pause in which Shiro’s heart feels heavy and swollen with guilt and sorrow. Then Lance’s chiming laughter breaks the silence. Shiro glances up to see Lance shaking his head, his brow furrowed in disbelief as he regards Shiro.

“You’re _unbelievable_ , dude,” Lance comments, amusement lightening his voice. “Swear to fuck, you were born in the completely wrong time with all your gallantry and righteousness and self-flagellation.”

“Perhaps that’s why I can barely understand the words that come out of your mouth sometimes,” Shiro responds with a small smile; their banter bouncing between them effortlessly.

Lance rolls his eyes and shakes his head again. “I’m _thanking_ you, there is absolutely _nothing_ you even remotely need to be sorry for and nothing more you could’ve done. You lost your fuckin’ arm, dude! Both of you did the best you could in a hellish situation that anyone else woulda died in.”

Shiro winces. “That’s not—”

“Shut the fuck up and take the damn compliment,” Lance says with a groan, bumping his shoulder against Shiro’s. He does as he’s told. “Christ, to simply get a fuckin’ compliment into you I have to pin you down and—”

Lance’s jaw snaps shut audibly. Shiro holds back the chuckle that threatens to rumble in his chest and even the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth in favour of studying Lance in his periphery. But as Shiro notices Lance’s tension and contemplation he realises how open and expressive Lance is being and has to turn to face him, staring wide-eyed and dumbfounded at the open book of Lance readily accessible before him.

Fingers curling tightly into the material of his jeans and cheeks colouring slightly, Lance has this faraway look saddening his expression, an odd combination of guilt and desire making his usually clear bright eyes murky. Lance swallows hard, Shiro hungrily tracking the bob of his Adam’s apple in the long column of his neck, and he looks like a man steeling himself to lose something he desperately wants.

“I’m the one who needs to apologise,” Lance says quietly, bowing his head with shame. “Shouldn’t’ve lost my shit at you like that the other night, you don’t deserve that, ‘specially when you were just looking out for me and I was just an ungrateful little shit.”

“I understand why you did though. I should have believed in you but I… Seeing you like that, and Branko treating you like that…” Shiro trails off and breathes deeply to relax the sudden burst of fury that twitches through his muscles at the memory. “It’s no excuse. I know how competent you are and I have complete faith in your abilities; I never should have gone in after you like that.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Lance murmurs the words so quietly into the breeze that Shiro only sees them formed by his mouth, reading the movement of his lips. His jaw tightens and he winces, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

“Sorry ‘bout pushing myself on you, that wasn’t… that was _so_ not cool,” Lance mumbles and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Was some teenage crush BS. ‘Specially what I said— _fuck_. Completely outta line, never wanna treat you like that. Was a mistake and it’ll never happen again, Shiro, I swear.”

Ice freezes through Shiro’s veins and crystallises around his heart, every time it tries to beat the sharp shards cut punishingly into the muscle.

Of course, it was a mistake, Shiro knows this, he’s Lance’s mentor, he’s in a position of power over Lance, and it would be wrong. Of course, Lance isn’t interested, he’s just naturally flirty, he flirts with everyone and mostly to manipulate them into doing something he wants, Shiro knows this. It’s stupid, this infatuation he has with Lance, he should have quashed it at the very first sign.

How had he even allowed this sliver of hope to worm its way into his usually stoic heart? Stupid, so very fucking stupid.

“It’s okay,” Shiro says, his voice tight around the self-loathing swelling in his throat. “You were a little drunk, crashing from an aggressive flood of adrenaline and overwrought from an emotional situation. It wasn’t personal, I get it.”

Lance snorts a laugh. “Was incredibly fuckin’ personal.”

“What.”

Lance frowns, hesitates, then straightens as he looks at Shiro, his insightful blue eyes flickering back and forth, scrutinising Shiro’s face. Understanding slowly washes over his face, eyes widening and mouth falling open.

“You don’t know,” Lance murmurs quietly. His expression hardens with exasperation. “Course you don’t fuckin’ know. Master of perception in everything but when it comes to yourself because you’re a hopelessly humble fucker who’s blind to his own fuckin’ perfection and to the idea that anyone could genuinely harbour intimate affection for you.”

As Lance rants, he pushes himself up and, for a troubling moment, it seems as if he’s so annoyed he’s about to leave. Shiro’s stomach drops because he’s clearly fucked up, said or done something completely wrong. Then Lance gracefully lifts his knee over Shiro and sits in his lap, straddling his thighs, and Shiro’s stomach drops for an entirely different reason.

Lance’s hands come up to rest on either side of Shiro’s neck, one thumb tracing across the line of his jaw and the other caressing the pulse point in his neck that is galloping along with his ridiculous, pitiful heart. Lance smiles warmly at him.

“I _meant_ it was a mistake talking to you like that, accusing you of all that disgusting shit and mocking you for your desire and your jealousy. I was an asshole and you deserve so much better,” Lance says, leaning in so close that Shiro can feel his breath against his lips, can count each individual freckle across the delicate skin under his beautiful blue eyes. “You deserve romantic, sunny ponds and sweet words and soft kisses…”

Those last words are brushed against Shiro’s mouth as Lance kisses him, soft and sweet as promised, a simple press of lips and Shiro’s hands automatically come to rest on Lance’s sides.

Lance hums against his mouth before pulling away a few inches. “I _meant_ that never again will I treat your desire as anything other than miraculous and amazing and breathtaking because I feel the same way. I want you, Takashi. I want you more than I have ever wanted anything.”

“Lance…”

Shiro has no idea what to say, what to do. Mostly he can’t believe this is even happening. Lance has always felt like something unattainable, which is why Shiro simply ignored his attraction and didn’t bother acting on it.

“But if I’m wrong and you don’t want this just tell me and I’ll—”

Shiro growls and catches Lance’s wrists as his hands fall from Shiro’s face.

“Can you just give me a _goddamn_ second, you can’t just—I don’t—this is… _Fuck,”_ Shiro finishes, his head dropping onto Lance’s shoulder.

He stays there a while, forehead pressing into the crook of Lance’s neck, nose touching his throat and breathing against the curve of his collarbone that’s hidden under his white t-shirt. Shiro has an unreasonable need to see Lance’s collarbone, uncovered and naked from everything but his smooth brown skin, as if it will give him answers and make sense of this whole mess. Or maybe he just wants to suck and bite down on it, mark it, claim Lance as his own, because that would be far simpler than facing the tumultuous, conflicting emotions swirling around his head.

As more time passes Shiro starts to feel guilty, but Lance doesn’t seem to mind, his arms relaxed where they’re trapped in Shiro’s grip and his cheek resting against Shiro’s head. He doesn’t want to let go, sitting here in this perfect moment of _almost_ being something, of listening to and feeling Lance’s every breath unfold from deep inside his chest all the way up his throat and through his nose, past his lips. Listening to the sounds of Lance’s lifeforce.

But almost being something is where they must remain.

“I’m your mentor,” Shiro says, the words pushed out with all the reluctant force of someone shooting themselves in the foot. Because that’s precisely what he’s doing, pushing Lance away and giving him up because of a bullshit professional technicality he can’t stand to stray from.

“Not anymore.”

Shiro leans back quickly, gaze frantically searching the brilliant grin on Lance’s face for deception and finding none.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re looking at the newest Paladin of team Voltron,” Lance announces, his tone brimming with pride. “Commander Panther, introducing code name: Lynx.”

“That’s…” Shiro feels himself gaping like a dying fish, thoughts swirling around a hundred questions but Lance is adorably happy and proud, so Shiro pushes the questions aside. “Lance, that’s wonderful. And utterly unheard of, no one has _ever_ been promoted to Paladin from trainee.”

“I know, I’m amazing,” Lance says and leans in closer. “See, I had this extraordinary mentor who guided me with the perfect amount of care and discipline, never takin’ none of my shit, even though I couldn’t stop myself from staring at his ass or flirting with him.”

“You were staring at my ass?”

Lance scoffs. “You kidding? It’s only one of the most perfect things I’ve ever seen, second only to your face, and drives me crazy on the regular; surprised I haven’t lost all sense of control and bitten into it without permission already.”

Shiro’s fingers tighten involuntarily around Lance’s wrists as the imagery makes all the muscles in his abdomen tighten with a sudden surge of desire. Lance inhales sharply at the pressure, thighs tightening around Shiro and gaze dipping to Shiro’s mouth, practically begging for permission. Shiro wants to give in to him, wants to give him everything.

“Nonetheless, I’m…” His voice grates out of his throat, ragged and faltering, staring into Lance’s eyes as they move up to meet his gaze, dual blue flames burning low and hot with longing. Shiro clears his throat. “I’m still your commanding officer, still in a position of power over you and it would be wrong for me to abuse that—”

Before Shiro even knows what’s happening, in a single powerful rush of movement Lance has him pinned to the ground. Shiro grunts as his head hits the wooden pier, one of his arms pinned beside his head and the mechanical one stretched out with the toe of Lance’s navy Converse pressed into the wrist joint, expertly deactivating it. Lance’s free hand is wrapped around Shiro’s neck, firm enough to hold him in place but so hard as to hinder his breathing.

“Position of power, huh?” Lance mocks, leaning in close and smirking down at him, shins digging into Shiro’s thighs to prevent him from being able to shift his weight at all. He’s completely restrained. “How’s that working out for you?”

The low, cocky rumble of Lance’s voice and the strong lines of Lance’s body holding him down send a thrill of flame licking down his spine, settling low in his abdomen where it coils tightly, writhing and begging for release. Shiro has never so desperately needed to be fucked and fucked hard. He’s never wanted someone so wholly as he wants Lance. He wants. And wants. And _wants_.

“Lance, we can’t…” he mumbles between his teeth, going against everything his body and mind are screaming for.

“Why? Because you have ‘power’ over me, Commander? It’s a _title,_ Takashi, no one has power over me. Not you, not Matt, not Allura or Lotor. _No one_. You’re a dumbass if you think a single one of you ever had the power to compel me to do something I didn’t wanna.”

All argument dies in the back of his throat at Lance’s snarling words. Because he knows Lance, knows how capable and intelligent and resilient Lance is. Shiro has no doubt in his mind that if the Altea Agency commanded him to do something he really didn’t want to do Lance would simply give them the middle finger, heedless of the consequences, and evade their wrath, possibly even cause some damage in return.

 _“What makes you think I’m not_ exactly _where I want to be?”_

Lance’s words from the first time they met echo in Shiro’s mind. He feels all the fight fade away in the form of a heavy sigh as he realises that Lance is right. Lance is only ever where he wants to be. Kissing Shiro sweetly on a pier overlooking a picturesque lake.

“Let go please, Lance.”

The fierce determination in Lance’s eyes flickers out, doused by a hurt expression that washes over his features. Slowly, the pressure of Lance’s body shifts enough for Shiro free his hands. Before Lance can straighten, Shiro reaches up and cups his face between his hands, mouth automatically moving to meet Lance’s.

Lance grunts and instinctively puts his hands down on the pier to steady them from the abrupt movement. When his momentary surprise fades, Lance hums appreciatively against Shiro’s mouth and realigns their mouth at a better angle in which their noses are no longer mashed together, and Shiro no longer has to crane his neck up. Shiro’s arms wrap around Lance’s back as he swipes his tongue over Lance’s lips, mapping out the chapped lines of his mouth but never breaching it. Taking his time to learn the way Lance’s lips move and taste and feel.

“I‘m sorry,” Shiro manages to get out between kisses.

“Don’t be,” Lance murmurs against his mouth, kissing him once more before pulling back a few inches to gaze down at him. “‘s part of the reason I like you, want you; you’re honourable to a fault and would rather give up everything than ever consider taking advantage of me, of your ‘power.’ Don’t want you to have to worry ‘bout that, I’ll go in and quit right now if you still think it’ll compromise that charming, otherworldly honour of yours.”

Shiro tilts his head and smiles up at him, warmth encircling his heart at how well Lance knows him and the lengths he’s willing to go to be with him. He moves a hand up to cup Lance’s cheek, scraping his nails over the short hairs of Lance’s undercut and trailing his thumb over Lance’s cheekbone.

“You’re beautiful, Lance. The brightest star in all the galaxies,” Shiro comments.

Lance stares at him blankly for a silent few moments in which Shiro starts to regret his candour, then he grimaces and buries his face against Shiro’s neck.

“Oh, my _God_ ,” Lance groans, the sound reverberating against Shiro’s skin. “You’re going to be like this all the time, aren’t you? All cheesy and oldworldy romance. Fuck, I’ve made a huge mistake. This is clearly a trap to murder me with all your sweetness.”

An expert in Lance’s humorous dramatics, Shiro merely chuckles and wraps his arms tighter around his body, pulling him in closer to Shiro’s chest. He doesn’t respond because Lance is probably right, knowing Shiro better than he seems to know himself. They settle there, wrapped around each other, enjoying the peaceful day and the closeness Shiro has yearned for since he met Lance, an insatiable, overpowering infatuation that grew and grew the more he got to know him.

It’s oddly easy, being twinned together, comfortable.

Being a lifelong military man, Shiro has found little time for relationships, but in the few he has experienced it always felt stilted, forced. It felt like something he should do, something expected of him when his parents asked if he’d met a nice boy upon every conversation they shared. He knew it wasn’t what they wanted for him, those stagnant relationships he tolerated and endured, they simply wanted for him to experience the same love they shared.

This isn’t anything like those relationships. This, here with Lance – after Shiro allows all his doubt to recede – feels natural, effortless. Lance slots into the space around him like he was specifically designed for it, their breathing synchronising without thought and Lance’s fingers digging into Shiro’s shirt as if he’s wanted this as much as Shiro has. And he probably has. Because, suddenly, that just makes sense. They make sense.

“You smell so good, Takashi,” Lance mumbles against the delicate skin at Shiro’s neck, the heat of his breath trailing goosebumps down his spine. “You’re so warm.”

“Say it again.”

Shiro can feel Lance smile and he tilts his head to speak more clearly when he says, “Takashi.” Because of course Lance just knows, knows amongst all of those words spoken exactly what Shiro needs to hear. And he repeats it, murmuring his name into his skin, the adoration in which it’s spoken heating through flesh and muscle and entrenching itself deep in Shiro’s bones where it’ll never wither or fade.

“I’ll say it all you want, Takashi. I’ll whisper it, and moan it, and breathe it, and laugh it, and growl it. It’ll be the first thing I say every mornin’ and last word I speak every night. Because you’re all I ever think about and that’ll never change.”

Shiro huffs a laugh. “Now who’s getting sappy?”

“Me,” Lance admits unapologetically. “You have no idea how long I—How much I’ve just wanted to be here, in your arms. How long I’ve wanted you to just see me, respond or react to my flirting, or—or _anything_.”

“I always saw you, Lance. But I couldn’t just—”

“I know. Couldn’t break your knightly code of no screwing around with vulnerable recruits under your command. No idea how much I thought ‘bout it, like every night, dreaming of you walkin’ in and just saying ‘fuck it’ and then actually fucking it, and by ‘it’ I mean me. But, as hot as it would be, I never want you to break that code because it’s who you and are who you are is exactly why I’m crazy ‘bout you.”

Shiro turns his head and smiles against his fluffy waves of brown hair, kissing the side of Lance’s head.

“You talk a lot.”

“Nothin’ new to you,” Lance mutters. “But now you have a viable method for shutting me up that I expect you to utilise to its full extent.”

As a demonstration, Lance turns his head, rubbing their noses together gently, tenderly, as their gazes lock before pressing forward to claim Shiro’s mouth. Shiro hums into it, pushing forward, spurred by the warmth building his chest and swirling lower through his abdomen, and swipes his tongue into Lance’s mouth. Lance’s jaw falls open, admitting him without hesitation, and Shiro explores the warm, wet wonder of Lance’s mouth.

With their bodies crushed together and heads tilted at an odd angle, it’s not an optimal position to explore from. Shiro’s kisses quickly revert to being sloppy and lazy, sucking at Lance’s lips and tongue.

“My knees hurt,” Lance says, straightening to look down at Shiro, his fingers lingering on Shiro’s chest and fiddling with the buttons of his shirt absently. His next words are slow and drawn out with a playful smirk curving his lips. “Maybe we can go back to my place and I can get some carpet burn on my knees to go along with these splinters.”

It’s not smooth in the slightest, which means it’s an entirely Lance things to say. Shiro smiles, but it fades quickly with the image his words conjure, Lance on his knees before him. And that’s… _fuck_ , that’s a sight he desperately wants to see. But perhaps not yet. Perhaps it’s too soon. Shiro wants so many things it’s difficult to know what should come first.

“How about,” Shiro says, pushing himself up on his hands, “first, we find somewhere nice to have lunch and then see where it leads from there?”

Lance huffs a laugh, a fond smile curling his lips. Hands on Shiro’s shoulders, Lance pushes himself to his feet and pulls Shiro up with him, shaking his head with exasperated fondness.

“Right, propriety and all,” Lance comments light-heartedly. “What, need to ask my brother’s permission before you can bed me?”

Shiro knows he’s only teasing, that if Lance were truly unhappy with the suggestion, he’d say so and that he won’t push for more than Shiro’s comfortable with. But something about the easy acceptance rankles Shiro.

Lance brought Shiro here with the intention of opening up to him, leaving himself vulnerable and showing Shiro how much he cares and how important he is – something he’d never allowed himself to reveal before. Shiro has been the complete opposite, unafraid to express how much he cares without being demonstrative of his desire. Though somehow Lance perceived it.

He wants Lance to have both, to have it all, to have every part of Shiro. But right now he wants Lance to know how coveted he is, how much Shiro _wants_.

“Or,” Shiro begins, low and deep, stepping in closer to Lance without touching him, “you could take me back to your apartment and fuck me until I’m a raw, writhing mess begging for release, chanting your name over and over. And then we can have dinner.”

Lance’s eyes widen, almost comically, and he holds his breath, the muscles in his arms and neck taut. Exhaling a weighty “ _fuck_ ,” Lance simultaneously fumbles for Shiro’s hand and for the keys in his pocket. Shiro chuckles at the display as Lance finally gets a firm grip of his hand but, as he’s about to lead Shiro away, there is an ominous jingle of falling keys and a watery _thwump_.

Lance halts and whirls, staring down into the water wide-eyed and panicked. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me!”

“Did you just drop the keys into the water…?”

“I dropped the fuckin’ keys in the fuckin’ water!” Lance growls, mostly at himself, glaring at the pond as if this is all it’s beautiful, peaceful fault.

Shiro hums. “This is going well. Maybe we shouldn’t…” his tone is light, with Lance’s fingers threaded through his own he doesn’t care much where they are or what’s happening. And the prospect of teasing Lance is too tempting.

“No, no, we’re going to! You cannot just say shit like that and then—” Lance frets, his eyes snapping to Shiro wide and worried. When he sees Shiro smiling playfully, he rolls his eyes and tugs at Shiro’s arm, marching them back up to the building. “I _will_ fix this. And you’re never allowed to make jokes when sex is on the line _ever_ again.”

They get out to the car, fortunately avoiding Marco or Henry or anyone who can halt their progress. Shiro feels his skin buzzing with anticipation, his limbs and muscles loose and his mind swimming with Lance, Lance, _Lance_.

Lance pulls his phone from his pocket, leaning his elbow against the top of the car and meeting Shiro’s gaze hungrily across the top of the vehicle. They stay that way for seconds, minutes, hours, however long, staring into each other’s eyes with a large metal car between them. Luckily, because Lance’s gaze says he wants to rip Shiro’s clothes off right here and Shiro really isn’t feeling adverse to the prospect.

“Hunk! Just the man I need. Can you do me a favour and electronically hotwire one of the Altea’s vehicles? I lost the keys.”

Shiro can’t hear the other end of the phone line, but with the way Lance’s brow slowly furrows deeper and deeper, there seems to be a lot of complaining and resistance from Hunk. Lance groans.

“Hunk, this is an _emergency_!”

The urgency in Lance’s tone isn’t feigned, but it certainly isn’t for whatever life or death reason Hunk likely believes it is. The car doors all unlock simultaneously, and Lance is muttering his appreciation to Hunk and ending the call as he settles into the driver seat.

“Ready?” Lance asks as the car rumbles to life underneath them.

Shiro laughs and shakes his head at this ridiculous man beside him. This ridiculous man he wants to kiss and hold and fuck and worship. This ridiculous man he loves and wants to spend the rest of his life with.

Shiro rests his hand at the nape of Lance’s neck, meeting his blue gaze steadily. “For you? Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for bearing with me, it's been an exhausting couple of months but I'm getting really close to finishing my study which will free up some time to write, which is awesome because I'm actually going a little mental without my writing D:
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter will be back with the present-day cliff of angst I left you hanging off ^_^

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://sarogane.tumblr.com/)


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